Die Twisted Affäre
by 39addict101
Summary: (The Twisted Affair) It's World War II, and the Cahills are engaged in a full-out bloodbath to try and stop Lucian Adolf Hitler from establishing his "Third Kingdom" (Third Reich). Amy Cahill (branch unknown) is called to serve undercover, and suddenly, before she knows what's happening, she's having an affair. With the enemy. STRONG T Rating.
1. Chapter 1

_World War II._

The statement shocked the world, all though they had all been expecting it. The seas were full of mystery, for German U-Boats lurked in the black waters, waiting to pounce on their prey.

Relations were tense, especially for the Cahills. _Trust no one_ had never been such a true statement.

Their work-finding the clues- would have to pause, and Lucian Adolf Hitler would have to be stopped. This German tyrant, and cold-blooded Jew-hater was hated even by members of his branch.

But the treacherous Lucians who opposed Hitler kept silent, preferring to work in the darkness of the underground. The world had turned into a huge spy story, but it wasn't a game.

People such as Corrie ten Boom, Odette Brailly, Jesse Owens, Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg and many other Cahills knew the truth of it.

It _wasn't_ a game. This was real. This was intense. This was a cause worth dying for.

And Amy Cahill was wrapped up in the midst of it all.

* * *

The Madrigals were still the ruthless, feared branch, and Amy Cahill worked quietly with other Cahills, ignoring the fact that they did not know her lineage.

At first, she wasn't trusted by any branches. But when she proved herself, after whisking athlete Jesse Owens out of Adolf Hitler's racist fist immediately following the Olympics, she was accepted by all those who were against Hitler's Germany.

* * *

 _September 1, 1939._

The day brought shudders of horror to thousands. For that was the day Hitler sent his Nazi troops barrelling into Poland.

Two days later, Great Britian and France, sticking with the alliance they had made with Poland, declared war on Germany.

World War II had begun.

* * *

The "Phony War" was in full swing, and Cahill agents were running everywhere, trying to fortify bases, and strengthen their sides.

Thankfully, there had been little fighting for several months.

Secret meetings were held everywhere.

Agent Amy Cahill sat in a meeting, equipped with a sharp pencil and a notebook.

Jesse Owens, African-American athlete, and winner of four gold medals, was speaking. His deep voice echoed in the quiet basement where all the other agents sat scribbling notes in code.

To anyone who was able to sneak a peek into the agents notebooks, all they would have seen was tips on how to make a delicious cheesecake.

The agents were assembled in groups. There was the base groups, and then there were the slightly higher up groups, and then the highest.

Each small group used their own code. A leader from that group knew the code of another group, whose leader knew their own code and different group's code.

This way no one knew every code, and this way if someone was caught, only two groups' codes would be revealed. The leaders of the groups met together, and used their own code.

Then there was the top. Leaders of the leaders, so to say, met together, using secret code that only specific individuals knew.

Every sentence could be a code, and the agents had to always be on their guard, in case a secret message was trying to be relayed.

Jesse Owens, the co-leader of the group, turned to Amy. "We have a job for you." He said.

Amy nodded. "I'd be happy to do your laundry."

The group burst out laughing. Jesse frowned. "Mrs. Smit." (Everyone in the underground was known as Mr. or Mrs. Smit) "Do not try to be funny with me."

Amy smiled. "What? I hear you don't often do your laundry!"

Owens frowned. "Hilarious. You must get it from your brother, Mr. Smit."

Amy smiled. "Yeah, and I suppose you get your athletic ability from your mother, Mrs. Smit?"

Jesse arched his eyebrows. "Of course." Then his tone turned serious, "There is a German agent who has been trying to infiltrate us."

He turned to Amy. "Mrs. Smit, it is your job to find this agent, and turn him over to us."

She nodded. "Ok . . . . and this job will be doing . . . ." Then she pursed her lips, understanding flooding through her. "Oh, I see. You'll talk to me about it later."

Nodding his agreement, Jesse rustled through some documents, and then turned back to the small gathering of worried, strained faces around him. "You guys can all go. Except for Mrs. Smit, of course."

The small crowd stood up, their faces lined with anxiety. They had heard of German agents infiltrating before, but that had been last year, and they had not imagined it would happen again. Nor did they imagine it would happen again.

Amy stood up, and went up to Jesse. "What does this job contain?"

Owens smiled. But it wasn't a happy smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "You will be pretending to be a Nazi's widow. This Nazi died a while ago . . . and we . . . took out . . . his wife, but no one is sure of that yet. We're going to create a sob story for you, and then you can infiltrate their side."

Amy arched her eyebrows. "And that's supposed to be all?"

The man frowned. "Well . . . ." He hesitated.

"Well?" Amy questioned.

Jesse frowned. "You have to pretend to be in love with a certain officer. It was rumored they were having an affair. _But_ _rumors_ have been confirmed. You will have to . . . play the part."

Amy nearly choked. "By play the part you mean have an affair? With someone I don't even know?" Worry ran through her. "But . . . my body will definitely be different than this widow's. I may look similar, but I can't have every feature of her. Lovers will recognize something is wrong."

Owens nodded. "I know. That's why I sent you. You're pretty sharp, Smit, and I think you could handle the stress."

Amy gulped. "If you say so. When do I leave?"

Owens smiled. "As soon as you're ready. _Guten tag, cherie_."

Amy laughed. "I believe that _"cherie"_ is French."

Owens laughed. "Good ear. But you'll have to perfect your German. And have a French accent. This Nazi widow came from France."

Amy sighed. "Is that even possible?"

Owens' lips parted into a beaming smile. "It is for you, Mademoiselle."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Thanks . . . " She looked up at him, a glint in her jade eyes. "Mr. Smit."

Then she ran out the door before he could slap her.

* * *

 _Paris, France February, 1940_

The night was dark. The snow fell softly on the cobbled streets. A man, his face masked in shadow, strode briskly towards a small house tucked neatly in a dark alleyway.

The smell was atrocious. It smelled of human waste, garbage, and mystery. Only a small shaft of moonlight could be seen through the cloud cover, and it wasn't showing here.

The man's eyes checked around him, looking for any possible tails. Seeing none, he continued towards the door of the meeting place of the German secret agents.

Knocking once, twice, three times in a certain beat, he waited for the door to be opened.

Within a few moments, the door creaked open. "Hallo." His voice was rough, loud, in the silent night.

"Hallo. Was ist unser Bericht sagen? Haben wir alle Fortschritte gesehen?" The man inside the door spoke.  
 _"Hello. What's our report say? Have we seen any progress?"_

The man nodded. "Die Kuh - der kleine spoin-hat uns erwischt. Darf ich reinkommen?"  
 _"The cow - the little spy - has caught up to us. May I come in?"_

The man inside nodded. "Natürlich, Arschloch, Natürlich."  
 _"Of course, asshole, of course."_

Stepping inside, he quickly shut the door behind him. "Sie haben meine Präsenz in ihren Kreisen entdeckt. Sie wissen nicht, dass es mich ist, aber Sie sind heiß auf meinem Weg. Ich werde bald entdeckt werden, wenn wir nicht vorsichtiger sind."  
 _"They have discovered my presence in their circles. They do not know it is me, but they are hot on my trail. I will soon be discovered if we are not more careful."_ _  
_

The other man gasped. "Was?" He sighed. "Halten Sie still, oder wir alle Zahlen." His voice was grave, his face serious, even in the darkness.  
 _"What? Keep quiet, or we'll all pay."_

The man nodded, and then he was gone, his last whispered words lingering in the darkness. "Heil hitler."

* * *

 _Maine, February, 1940_

The waves rolled, a furious monster in the ocean. They beat against the shore, sending spray flying high up into the air. The sun caught the water droplets and caused them to shimmer in the light.

Amy sat perched up on a rock, high above the foaming water, studying her German. Being Frau Hellmann was certainly not going to be an easy job.

A contact had told Jesse Owens that Frau Hellmann's favorite phrase was "Halt den mund." -which was translated, "Shut up."

Amy had to learn to speak German, with a flawless French accent, which was not going to be easy. She had an American accent, and while French had come easily to her, she spoke it with an American accent.

Sighing, she looked down at her piece of paper, which held all the terms she was to memorize by tomorrow - in a French accent, of course.

"Ich liebe dich. I love you. Ich liebe dich." Amy clenched her teeth. "Halt den mund, Frau Hellmann!" She shouted.

Then, resentfully, she whispered. "Frau Hellmann, you're an arschloch."

* * *

 _The Next Day_

"Amy? Are you listening to me?" Jesse's voice fell on empty ears. Amy was staring out the window, muttering something, and weaving flowers in her hair.

"Amy!?"

Amy turned around, her face the expression of innocence. "Heil hitler, Kuh." The sunlight caught on her auburn hair, and strands glowed in the beams. A daisy chain was half-woven into an eloquent half-braid. She was beautiful.

Owens tried to ignore her beauty, instead concentrating on her earlier statement. His face turned a dark purple. "Did you just call me a cow?"

"Halt den mund. Uh . . . " Amy paused. "Ich did it für Hitler." Her German was brusque, crisp, and it held a lilting French accent.

Owens' mouth fell open. He inwardly decided to ignore her offensive statement. "How'd you learn to get your accent down that fast?"

Amy smiled. "My secret." Then she frowned. "Haven wir alle Fortschritte gesehen?"  
 _"Have we seen any progress?"_

Jesse shook his head. "No. We're waiting on you now, to finish your German, and I must say, you're doing very well. You'll be ready to go in a couple weeks."

Amy smiled. "Heil Hitler. Kann alle gut sein." She crossed her fingers behind her back, hoping for the best.  
" _May all be well."_

* * *

 _A Meeting of the Underground in Poland, February, 1940_

"Honey? How do you manage to make your cheesecake so delicious?" The street was bustling around them. A man and a woman holding hands walked by the two women, suspecting nothing.

"Why, Mrs. Smit, how do you not know! I gave you the recipe! You must use plenty of cream, and lots of freshly chopped red strawberries. In fact, I'll send some over today!"

The woman kept her face blank, but her eyes held a flash of understanding. "Ah! I think I see! I'll prepare the batter the way I normally do, and you'll send over some strawberries?"

The other woman smiled. "Yes! Be ready!"

The two women parted ways, and no around them was the wiser. Except for one man. He had noticed a small mistake the two woman had made. Neither of them were named Mrs. Smit.

He was going to have to do a little investigating. "Für Hitler." He told himself.

Smiling, he walked away, and decided that strawberries sounded delicious. He would have to steal some from some ladies later today.

* * *

 _The Home of the Monarch_

She laughed, serving her guests poisoned tea, which had been carefully brewed. She played the perfect hostess, insisting that they drink their tea, and have more of it.

"Drink it!" She persuaded, her tiny dimples showing in her flushed cheeks. Her merry laugh echoed in the perfectly decorated room, with its French carpets, and China decorations.

The windows let in just the right amount of sunlight, giving the lush room a cheery glow. And with her laugh echoing around the room . . . they were dead meat.

Her guests looked at her, and hurried to gulp down the dangerous liquid. One man, his large stomach jiggling as he laughed, asked for me.

He did not survive the night.

And her husband, the Monarch, dumped his body in a ditch, without a second thought.

* * *

 _Maine, March, 1940_

With the smell of salt, and the spray of the ocean splashing upon her face, Amy completed her German test.

"Darf ich reinkommen, junger Herr?"  
 _"May I come in, young sir?"_

"Natürlich, meine Dame!" Owens played the part of whoever Amy was speaking too, forcing her to use her beautiful French accent, and her common courtousy skills gained during her study of German.  
 _"Of course, my lady."_

"Danke! Junger Herr!"  
 _"Thank you, young sir!"_

"Ihr willkommen, mein kleines Mädchen!"  
" _Your welcome, my little girl!"_

Amy looked down at the ground, and smiled shyly, not knowing what else to say.

Owens frowned too, and looked at his paper. "You passed." He announced. "As you can see, I saved the easiest for last, but there's one more thing you need to know . . . " Frowning, he looked down at his paper, and then he spoke. "Ist Erdbeeren und Sahne, Ihre Lieblings-Käsekuchen Aufstockung?"  
 _"Is strawberries your favorite cheesecake topping?"_

Amy smiled. "Nein, Heir." Then she frowned. "Wait . . . are you an agent for our side? Do I say yes?"

Jesse shrugged. "I don't care. I mean, you should say yes, if you suspect. But remember, not everyone knows our code. But if you think they're going to hurt you, say no." He reached over and patted Amy's frail arm. "Use your judgment, Cahill."

Amy frowned. "I'll try." Brushing a long strand of hair away from her face, she looked out at the rolling ocean, its tossing waves, its tears splashing up onto her face. A gull soared high above her in the canvas of sky. Strokes of fluffy white - the clouds - were a brush of white on a blue canvas, by a master painter.

It inspired her.

"I can do it." She silently told herself, although she didn't believe it.

She looked up at Jesse, who was staring down at her with an odd expression written on his dark face. "What's wrong?" She asked, although she had a feeling she knew what it was.

Owens shrugged. "Nothing. I'm just . . . worried."

Amy frowned. "It's about that officer, isn't it?"

Owens looked startled for a minute, but then he glanced out at the foaming water. His face was distant, and his eyes stared out at something Amy couldn't see. He turned to her, and before Amy knew what was happening, his arms were around her, and her face was pressed against his solid chest. "Yes."

Amy didn't know what to say. Instead, she wrapped her arms tighter around Jesse's warm solidness that belonged solely to him. "Ich liebe dich." She murmured.

Jesse's arms tightened. "What?"

Amy looked up at him. He was looking down at her, a scared look in his eyes. "Exactly what I said. I love you."

Jesse said nothing, just shut his eyes, and held her closer. He turned, and released Amy. Turning his body away from her, he stared out at the vast blue ocean, full of mystery, and his body shuddered.

The fastest man on the planet was crying. Amy put her hand on his back, and said, "Shh. You'll never lose me. Ever."

Jesse turned to her. "I know. Its just . . . I'm scared you'll like that guy more than me."

Amy frowned. "What's his name?"

Jesse looked startled. "I never told you?" He shut his eyes. "Herr Ian Kabra."

Amy snorted. "That sounds like a snake!"

Jesse laughed. "Well, agents have reported that he is a snake. He's sly, smart, and exceedingly crafty."

Amy frowned. "I have to have a pretend affair with a man who acts like a snake?"

Jesse nodded. "Yes. I'm afraid you do."

Amy shook her head. "Well . . . let's hope he looks like a snake too." Pausing, she turned to Jesse. "Jesse, I will never forget you, and the influence you've had on my life, no matter what happens."

Jesse turned away from her again, and stared out at the raging sea. "I know." His voice was throaty, choked. "I'll never forget you either."

* * *

 _A Rolling Meadow, Maine, 1940_

The wind was blowing the golden-green grass, and the two black horses were sleek and shiny. Their hooves thundered on the dry ground,

The grass parted as they ran by, their massive hooves rising and falling in a perfect rhythm. Amy and her brother, Dan, sat on top of the Fresian monsters there aunt had owned for as long as they could remember.

They were full-out running, at a gallop, and Amy was leaning forward, holding on to her horse's wavy black mane that streamed in her face.

Dan was right behind her, and he was yelling something to his poor horse, which, as Amy insisted, was the slower of the pair.

Her horse was sweating, and there was nothing more glorious than having a glob of horse froth slam into your face. _Yuck_.

Smiling, Amy pulled on the reins, and looked back at Dan. Her victory was the cause of her triumphant smile, and warmth radiated from her.

Her horse slowed to a trot, and Dan caught up. Amy slowed her horse even more, and he reduced his speed to a slow walk. Dan did the same.

It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, and the wind was blowing in their faces. The blue sky held not a trace of a cloud.

It was a fresh canvas, waiting for the painters mark.

The horses had been rearing to go, cooped in their small corral, and Amy and Dan could not resist. It was their last day together, maybe forever, and they had decided to go riding.

Amy had previously said a tearful, painful goodbye to Jesse, and the next step on her list was to speak adieu to her family. It was going to be painful, especially since Amy's parents had died when she was only seven.

They had lived with their cruel aunt, and one bright spot in their miserable lives with her was that she owned two beautiful black Fresians, which she _generously_ let them ride.

The only other minor light was their grandmother, who visited them sometimes from her home in Boston, Massachusetts.

Their home in Brunswick, Maine, was too far for her to visit often. Twenty-five year old Amy could only remember a handful of times when Grace had come over . . . besides holidays.

The two siblings carried much pain over their parents' death, and their aunt's quite obvious hatred of them. Grace, they reasoned, was the only one who truly loved them.

And then Amy met Jesse.

Her grandmother had told her that the only way to prove herself to the other branches was to do something stupid . . . and succeed.

Amy had whisked Jesse Owens out of Germany after the Olympics, and it had definitely been love at first sight . . . the rest was history.

And now Amy stood staring at the grass waving around her, tinted green at the bottom, but dried gold at the top.

She turned to Dan. "I'm going to miss you, ya know that, right."

Dan nodded, pulling his horse up next to Amy's. "I know. I wish you would tell me where you're going!" He cried. "I hate to think of you, all alone, and where I could never rescue you if you got caught." He glanced down at the ground, and grabbed a handful of his horse's very black mane.

Amy nodded. "I know. I know, Danny. But . . . rules, regulations. ANYONE could find out, and I could get caught. If you said something like, 'Oh, yeah, my sister is off in France, visiting relatives . . .' Any German spy could figure out that no sensible American would go off and . . . I don't know . . .visit relatives in France, right near the front of the war!"

Dan nodded. "Ok." Then he smirked. "Are you going to France?"

Amy shook her head. "No. I'm going . . . " She caught herself. "Somewhere you can't know, honey."

Dan reached over, and smacked Amy. "Don't call me honey."

Then he kicked his horse, and galloped away. Amy spurred her horse on, and followed close behind him.

The day was perfect in everyway. The sunshine, the slight breeze, the baby blue sky . . . but it wasn't right for saying goodbye.

No day ever was.

* * *

 _Location Unknown. March, 1940_

The man's voice was scratchy. "Ist das wahr? Kommt Sie hierher, zu unserem großen Vaterland? Wie wagt es Sie!"  
 _"Is it true? Is she coming over here, to our great fatherland? How dare she!"_

"Ich bin nicht sicher. Ich habe nur Gerüchte gehört." The second man's voice was low.  
 _"I'm not sure. I've only heard rumors."_

"Nach wem ist Sie?" The first man was annoyed. He stopped pacing, and looked over at the other man, anxiously waiting for his answer.  
 _"Who's she after?"_

"Ich bin nicht sicher. Ein Nazi-Offizier von uns. Er ist nicht in der Undercover ... Ich weiß das." The man shrugged his shoulders.  
 _"I'm not sure. Some Nazi officer of some sort. He's not in the undercover . . . I know that."_

"Wer ist Sie imitiert?" The man was anxious, eager to find out.  
 _"Who's she impersonating?"_

The other man, the dreaded Monarch, shrugged. "Ich weiß es nicht. Halten Sie einfach die Augen offen."  
 _"I don't know. Just keep your eyes open."_

The first man's eyes gleamed. "Natürlich, Schmetterling Monarch."  
 _"Of course, butterfly monarch."_

Arching his eyebrows, the Monarch shook his head. "Tue nicht. Jeder könnte zuhören."  
 _"Don't. Anyone could be listening."_

The man shrugged. "Also? Sie fliegen einfach weg, wie Sie schon vorher getan haben!"  
 _"So? You'll simply fly away, as you've done before!"_

The Monarch sadly shook his head. "Nein. Das kann wahr sein, aber wir dürfen nicht zulassen, dass uns diese Fehlerquote. In Hitlers Deutschland gibt es keine Fehlerquote!"  
 _"No. That may be true, but we must not allow ourselves that margin of error. There is to be no margin of error in Hitler's Germany!"_

* * *

 _In a Plane Above the Atlantic, 1940_

She was terrified. The terror had grasped her throat, and was choking her.

Far below, the raging Atlantic tossed and turned, its foamy waves like saliva from a dragon, ready to devour her.

The plane had "hit some turbulent spots" as the pilot had kindly tried to explain to her. All she'd cared about was that her stomach felt like it was going to climb out her throat.

But now the plane was bouncing like a little beach ball on a giant wave. Amy could see beads of sweat on the dark pilot's forehead.

He was struggling to control the plane, and Amy, inexperienced though she was, could tell. Perspiration dripped down his neck, and she could see the veins in his neck.

The pilot had been told that Amy was going to Germany to be a missionary. He'd eaten up the lie, hook, line, and sinker, especially when Amy had asked him if he knew the Lord Jesus Christ.

Pulling out a Bible, she had taken the liberty of giving him a lengthy Bible study. The man had nodded, listening politely, but ignored her words.

He thought she was a freak, which was exactly Amy's intent.

She turned to the man. "How do you say, 'Bible' in German?" She laughed. "I just realized I had no clue how to say that."

The pilot was struggling to maintain control of the plane. "Bibel." He replied, through gritted teeth. The veins in his neck popped out with sheer concentration.

Amy walked away, calling over her shoulder, the German word for "Thank you."

As soon as she was out of hearing, she fell to her knees, grabbed the nearby trashcan, and vomited the contents of her crawling stomach into it.

They had barely been going for two hours, and already, she had thrown up. It was going to be a long, long, _long_ ride.

* * *

 _Nierstein, France. 1940_

They had landed. Amy had never been so thankful for the dry ground. She had kissed the pilot goodbye, and urged him to, "Gehe mit Gott.", or "Go with God" in English.

The pilot had smiled, and said, "I wish the same to you, my lady. I hope the Germans aren't too rough on you."

Amy had smiled, and said, "They won't be."

But it was dangerous for her to be seen speaking English, so she had waved a simple goodbye, and held her tongue around the crowds who had flocked to see this daring woman who had ridden in a plane across the Atlantic.

From now on, she would speak only German.

She stood, in the bitter February cold, chilled to the bone. The sky was a murky gray, and French soldiers stood everywhere, guarding their precious "Maginot Line."

Amy hoped, with all her soul, that the Germans would not break through this heavily fortified line.

However, she would have to pretend, once she got into Germany, that she hoped they would.

But now, in France, she didn't have to say anything if she didn't want too. She could be as silent as a mouse in its hole.

She stared down at the gray cobblestone streets, wondering where the man who was supposed to pick her up was.

Jesse had told her that he was supposed to be wearing a white rose. She scanned the streets, looking for anyone with any type of flower pinned to their shirt.

There was no one. The street was vacant, except for a small begger boy, picking through a pile of trash by a villa.

Sighing, Amy shoved her hands deeper down into her thin coat pockets.

The underground had decided that it would be best for her not to take her good fur coat, one, because she was at first traveling as humble missionary, and missionaries would not have such things; and two, because if she had really been held hostage by the Polish as her story, then they would have stolen such nice things.

So now Amy was wearing a horribly thin, patched, ill-fitting coat, and she was freezing. Even her bones seemed frozen.

Just then someone touched her. She looked up, and glanced into kind blue eyes. A man with a dirty white flower reached for her hand, without saying a word, and led her away.

She followed meekly, stepping lightly on the cobblestones, for her shoes too were old, and broken, and they leaked cold through them. They offered no more protection than cheesecloth.

The man pulled her into an alleyway, and led her towards what appeared to be a small, dingy hut.

He looked around him nervously, and then sighed. "I thought I'd never find you. I'm afraid your Mr. Smit failed to tell me the right street. Or I misunderstood, either way . . ." He let his words trail off awkwardly.

Amy smiled. "It's ok. I'm nothing more than permafrost anyways."

The man looked shocked. "What's permafrost?"

Amy mentally kicked herself. The man probably had no clue where she was from. Jesse told her that oftentimes, people in the underground helped each other, no questions asked. This man had no clue of her mission, and he would probably never know.

And in case of questioning . . . it would be better if he knew nothing about where she was from.

Permafrost was probably something only the well-educated knew about. Amy did not want to label herself as anything. She wanted to anonymously come, and just as anonymously, disappear.

Turning back to the man, she smiled. "Its when you never unfreeze."

He grunted. Amy groaned internally. _Way to go, Cahill._

* * *

 _Later_

Having arrived safely in France, Amy was now privileged to enjoy a short twelve hour rest, before she was to be transported to the next stop.

She felt as if she was an escaping African-American in the 1800s. This was the twentieth century, and things were supposed to be more modern, more ritsy, but Amy felt as if she had been transported back to the Civil War . . . prejudice and all.

Wearily sinking down onto the mattress the man had provided, she shut her eyes, and was instantly asleep.

Her dreams were troubled, and her sleep was restless. She tossed and turned, the mattres creaking on the cold floor. Her blankets were twisted, and her dress was tangled around her knees.

Suddenly she sat straight up, her breath gone. Whatever she had seen had troubled her. She couldn't remember what it was, just that it was terrifying. Her heartbeat was incredibly fast, and she felt as if it would burst out of her chest.

She couldn't remember what it was. And she was petrified. Too scared to go back to sleep, she lit a small candle and studied 'her story'.

'She' had been born in Frankfurt, Germany on June 23, 1907 to Lanita and Franke Zohyn. Her parents were now both deceased. One, Lanita, in childbirth, in 1911, and the other, Franke, in an automobile accident in 1924.

The following year, she had met Gerd Hellmann, the love of her life. (until she had meet the Nazi officer, that is) and married him, in 1926, at nineteen years of age.

She had had trouble having children, until Gerd Jr. was born, on Janurary 19, 1930. Three years later, on November 2, he had died of scarlet fever.

In 1938, her husband had been drafted to defend the "Fatherland" and he had been killed in battle. (Or by undercover agents, but she wasn't supposed to know that).

Amy's mind was spinning, there was no way she could remember all that.

Someone would ask her something, and she would stutter, and then they would become suspicious.

She read the typed pages, over and over again, until she thought she had it down. Then there was a knock on the door.

The man had told her that he was not going to get up, so as not to see who took her.

Amy hurriedly stuffed her extra clothes, raggedy though they were, into her satchel, and folded up the blankets.

Then she opened the door, and stepped out into the night, her black dress swirling around her legs.

* * *

 **I'm really excited about this. Like, I've never written this long of a chapter in my life.**

 **I already have chapter 2 written (which is a little longer than this) and I'm working on ch 3... I"M SO EXCITED.**

 **I've had this up my sleeve since reading Auf Weirdersehen Sweetheart. The German language is such a beautiful language, so I hope you don't mind me having people speak in German, and than translating it into English later.**

 **Also, I'm hoping to get the dangerous-ness of WWII displayed, along with the hurt, the pain, and the sorrow that it carried. Of course, more of that will come in the second chapter.**

 **Please review, if you don't mind. :DDD**


	2. Chapter 2

The wind was brisk and chilly. Amy's thin black dress did nothing to shield her from the cold that gnawed at her skin.

Her eyes watered; the wind whipped her hair around her face.

Grabbing a small piece of string from her threadbare pocket, she attempted to tie her hair back, but to no avail. The wind persisted in blowing her hair every which way, even going as far as to blow the trembling string from her flying hair.

Holding a hand in front of her face, she squinted her eyes, trying to follow the dark form in front of her. He was moving swiftly, his long feet taking quick strides; Amy had to trot to keep up with them.

Her hand quickly froze, taking the blunt of the wind, and her breath burned in her throat and lungs. A cold fire burned in her lungs, and her breath smoked in the cold air.

Running faster only gave more oxygen to the fire. She was panting now, and she called ahead, "Wait. I can't keep up."

The man stopped, and Amy could hear his feet tapping on the stones. When she reached him, he spoke, in a low voice, barely above a whisper, "We have to hurry. They are on our trail."

Amy nodded. "Yes, but running at a galloping horse's pace is not going to help us. Remember," She smiled up at him, unsure if he could see her face, "I'm a Polish escapee. I'm weak from lack of nourishment, and brutal beatings."

The man nodded. "Right, but you shouldn't have told me that."

Amy blushed, thankful the man couldn't see her in the dark. "Right again. I'm sorry. I'm new, if you couldn't tell."

The man snorted. "It was obvious. A new agent usually gasps for breath. Don't worry though, you'll catch up to the rest of us. Eventually."

Amy frowned, restraining the urge to slap him, and then began running ahead. "Well, then, let's go!"

The man nodded, and sprinted after her, yelling, "Do you even know where you're going?"

"Not exactly . . . ," Amy yelled back, "But I'm guessing you do?"

The man nodded. "Of course. Now come on!"

They reached a building, where the man motioned for her to be quiet. Nodding, Amy slowed to a crawl, and tried to quietly catch her breath.

The man leaned over to her, and whispered, "There'll be two horses here in a second. We're taking the back route. If anyone asks, we're secretly dating, and that's why we're sneaking around at night."

Amy had to stifle a groan. How many people was she going to have to 'fall in love with'? It was slightly irritating, to say the least.

Then she heard the ringing of steel-shod hooves on cement, and eagerly rushing forward, grabbing the first horse.

He was huge, with a rippling mane and tail. His eyes were gentle, but with a spark of mischief that made Amy fall in love with him immediately.

His huge hooves were larger than a dinner plate, and gentle hairs feathered out around his feet. His coat was a solid black, and it was soft, and well-groomed.

"He's beautiful." Amy breathed, not daring to think that she would get to ride such a magnificent creature.

The man looked towards her. "He's yours." Then he looked at the man listening, and said, "Ma copine ici apprécie faire des affaires avec vous, comme vous pouvez le dire."  
 _"My girlfriend here appreciates doing business with you, as you can tell." (French)_

The owner of the horses nodded."Je vois ça. L'argent, comme convenu?"  
 _"I can see that. The money, as we agreed?"_

Amy's "boyfriend" handed over several bills, and then took the lead rope of the other horse. "Merci." He said, nodding. Then he swiftly mounted the horse bareback, and motioned for Amy to do the same.

They galloped off into the night, the black horses nearly invisible in the darkness. The wind, which before had been freezing, was now nearly unbearable. Amy crouched forward, and tried to hide behind the horse's neck, but it didn't work.

The mane only got in her eyes, and she had to shut them, trusting her horse to follow the other horse. Opening her eyes, she suddenly saw the other horse quickly stop.

Pulling her mount to a walk, she reined over to where the man was stopped, staring off into the distance. "What is it?" She asked, fear filling her.

The man pointed ahead. "That."

A man stood in the field. The moonlight seemed to be concentrated everywhere but where he was standing. He held a gun in his right hand, pointed at them. His eyes were hard and, worst of all, he may have just heard Amy speak English.

Amy's companion turned to her. "French." He whispered. "Only French. Pretend to be smitten with me."

Amy gulped, and nodded. Reaching out her hand, she grabbed his, ignoring the man in the field. Leaning close, in what she hoped looked like a seductive move, whispered in the man's ear, "Did he hear me speak English?"

Next to her, the man turned bright red, as though Amy had whispered something sexy in his ear. He shook his head, and then said, "Non, ma douce. Il fait trop froid. Peut-être plus tard. Pas. Pas maintenant."  
 _"No, my sweet. It is too cold. Perhaps later. No. Not now."_

Amy took the extra "No" to mean that the man had not heard her. Placing on her face a pout that would have thrown any man over the edge, she crossed her arms and turned away from him.

The man in the field was gone.

Turning to the man, she hissed, "Where'd he go?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know. Don't pretend that he's not there. Keep speaking French." Then, loudly, he announced, "Si nous allons à l'hôtel, nous devons bouger maintenant, avant grand-maman nous attrape."  
 _"If we're going to get to the hotel, we must move now, before grandmamma catches us."_

Amy nodded. "Oui bien sûr. Je n'aurais jamais dû douter de toi, ma douce." Plastering onto her face what she hoped was sly smile, she announced, "Le dernier doit dormir par terre!" Spurring the beautiful stallion, she galloped away.  
 _"Yes, of course. I never should have doubted you, my sweet." and, "Last one there has to sleep on the floor!"_

The man smirked as he galloped after her. Then he yelled out loudly, "Oui. Bien essayé. Tu seras au lit avec moi, chérie, comme toujours."  
 _"Right. Nice try. You'll be in bed with me, honey, like always."_

 _Take that, whoever-you-are_. Amy thought. _There's no way you'll ever pick up my trail._

And with that enlightening thought, she galloped after the man who was to deliver her to her stationed place.

 _Frankfurt, Germany, 1940_

There had been no need to sneak across the border unauthorized. As soon as Amy had shown her, or Frau Hellman's, passport, and said that she had just escaped from a Polish prison, the German authorities whisked her off, telling her the news: Her husband was dead.

Amy gulped, and tried to think of the saddest thing that had ever happened to her. She said nothing to the German officials, shut her eyes, folded her hands, and with head bowed, began reciting the rosary. (Frau Hellman was a staunch Catholic) "Ave Maria, voller Gnade..."  
 _"Hail Mary, full of grace . . ."_

Filling her head with memories that should have been buried ago, she looked, her lips still saying the sacred words of the rosary. Tears ran out of her eyes."Ich hätte es wissen sollen." Her voice cracked. "Ich hätte es wissen sollen."  
 _"I should have known." 2x_

A Nazi officer awkwardly patted her back, saying nothing, sensing her grief.

Amy internally smiled. So far, so good. The other Nazi officer standing with her closed his eyes, and bowed his head, as if respecting the dead.

"Ihr Mann war ein großer Freund von mir."  
 _"Your husband was great friend of mine."_

Amy looked up, startled. The words had come from seemingly nowhere. "Er war?" No one had told her that the she would encounter friends of the dead. She had never thought of that aspect. Perhaps this man had met her, and he expected her to remember him! Perhaps . . . . awful thoughts trailed through her mind.  
 _"He was?"_

Was she to fail so soon, her mission only just begun?

 _The Home of the Waltz, 1940_

Banging. There was banging on the door. Roused from sleep, the man hurriedly jumped out of bed, and threw on his clothes. Whispering a comforting word to his nervous wife, he ran downstairs, and opened the door.

Two men stood on the veranda, the moonlight casting their shadows into the house. Glaring, he asked, "What do you want? You do realize its the middle of the night?"

The largest man frowned. "Yes." His voice was deep, booming, in the quiet night. "I'm very aware of that. In fact, now is probably the perfect time to catch you in your work." He paused. "Get him."

The smaller man leaped at the Waltz, and within seconds, he was subdued. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and his breaths came short and fast.

He was terrified. He was not going to lie, and be macho, he was terrified. "What do you want?" He asked, the cold terror gripping him like rough rope.

"You know what we want." The large man growled.

"No! I don't! Just tell me!"

"Why don't you tell us the meaning of the Blue Danube Waltz?"

Silence.

"Ah! So it is significant?"

Silence.

"That's what I thought. I'm going to send Mark over to that piano. He's going to play Blue Danube Waltz, and we're going to wait here and see what happens."

The Waltz said nothing, but inside, he breathed a deep sigh of relief.

 _Frankfurt, Germany 1940_

Amy waited nervously. Then, hesitantly, she looked up. "Hab ich dich kennengelernt? Ich erinnere mich nicht.." She laughed slowly. "Mein Mann hatte so viele Freunde." She had no clue if this was true. She was taking such a large risk, in such uncharted waters. It was more than risky, it was dangerous.  
 _"Did I meet you? I don't remember." ... "My husband had so many friends."_

The Nazi officer turned and looked closer at her. "Nein. Das hast du nicht. Aber er hat immer über dich geredet."  
 _"No. You didn't. But he was always talking about you."_

Amy looked down at the ground. "Keine negativen Dinge, hoffe ich."  
 _"Not negative things, I hope."_

The man laughed. "Nichts mehr als die üblichen negativen Dinge gesagt, über den Ehepartner. Er liebte Sie, Frau Hellmann. Er liebte dich mit seiner ganzen Seele."  
 _"Nothing more than the usual negative things said about one's spouse. He loved you, Mrs. Hellmann. He loved you with all his soul."_

And I went out and had an affair with some other Nazi officer. Amy thought. Suddenly it hit her what the war really was.

It wasn't a game. It wasn't funny. It wasn't some great spy story. Real people, with real families, real lives, real children died everyday, killed, slaughtered by the opposing side. Gerd Hellmann had done nothing wrong. He had just been on the wrong side, working towards something that was not a good goal. And because of his ignorance, or his lack of willpower to stand for the right, he had been destroyed.

War was death. War was hurt. War was sorrow. War was pain. Before Amy knew what she was doing, she blurted, "Ich hasse Krieg."  
 _"I hate war."_

The officer nodded. "Nicht wir alle? Und wir sind nicht einmal etwas zu tun im Moment. Ich sitze hier und warte darauf, dass etwas passiert. Und ich hasse es immer noch!"  
 _"Don't we all? And we're not even doing anything right now. Just sitting here, waiting for something to happen. And I still hate it!"_

Amy shook her head. "In den ersten zwei Monaten wurde ich gefangen genommen. Und der Krieg hat kaum begonnen. Ich habe Angst vor dem, was kommen wird. Ich sah Dinge... " She let her voice trail off.  
 _"Within the first two months, I was taken captive. And the war has hardly begun. I'm scared of what is to come. I saw things . . . ."_

The Nazi nodded sympathetically. "Ich habe auch. Diese Kinder, die ich befohlen habe zu töten. Ich konnte kaum Gesicht meine eigenen Kinder, zu wissen, ich hätte jemand anderes geschlachtet."  
 _"I did too. Those children I was ordered to kill. I could hardly face my own kids, knowing I'd slaughtered someone else's."_

Amy felt tears coming to her eyes. They were real tears, not tears she'd made up. "Ich weiß. Seine ekelhaft. Aber der Führer weiß, was am besten ist."  
 _"I know. It's so disgusting. But the Führer knows what is best."_

Nodding, as if he agreed with her, the Nazi placed a hand on her back. "Ihr Transport ist angekommen."  
 _"Your transportation has arrived."_

Amy looked up to see a broken down horse, pulling an equally broken down cart. She gasped. "Muss ich damit fahren? Was ist mit meinem Pferd passiert? Es ist 1940, um Gottes Willen!"  
 _"Must I ride in that? What happened to my horse? It is 1940, for goodness sake!"_

The officer cocked his head. "Ah, ja. Ich vergaß ihn. Er kommt mit. Aber Sie brauchen einen Wagen, um Ihre Sachen zu setzen, nicht?" He ignored her comment about what year it was.  
 _"Ah, yes. I forgot about him. He'll be coming with you. But you need a cart to put your belongings, don't you?"_

"Nicht genau." Amy retorted. "Das musst du vergessen haben. Sie haben alle meine Sachen genommen."  
 _"Not Exactly. You must have forgot, they took all of my stuff."_

The officer looked sheepish. "Du hast Recht. Ich vergaß. In diesem Fall halten wir das Pferd und den Karren (wir benötigen Sie vermutlich irgendwie) und Sie können Ihr Pferd nehmen."  
 _"You're right. I did forget. In that case, we'll keep the horse and cart (we'll probably need them anyway) and you can take your horse."_

Amy smiled. "Danke, junge sir!"  
 _"Thank you, young sir."_

The officer smiled. "Alles für Gerd." Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Weißt du, ich soll dich nicht das Pferd nehmen lassen, das du mitgebracht hast. Ich soll es für uns behalten. Aber, da du Gerd's Frau bist, lasse ich dich nehmen. Erinnern Officer Hallens, wenn Sie in Schwierigkeiten sind."  
 _"Anything for Gerd!" ... "You know, I'm not supposed to let you take the horse you brought. I'm supposed to keep it for us. But, since you're Gerd's wife, I'm going to let you take it. Remember Officer Hallens whenever you're in trouble."_

Amy nodded. "Oh, das werde ich! Ich werde!"  
 _"Oh, I will! I will!"_

The officer (whose first name Amy still didn't know) left to go get Amy her horse. When he came back a few minutes later, the horse was saddled, brushed, and perfectly groomed. Smiling, Amy took the horse's reins, and with a little help from the Nazi, mounted the horse. Uttering a few last words of farewell, Amy trotted off, pretending she knew exactly where she was going.

 _Maine, 1940_

Dan sat in another stuffy, boring agent meeting. He had no clue where Amy was, which was not only depressing, but heart-breaking.

He had no way to contact her, no way to say anything to her, no way to wish her a happy birthday. She was isolated from him and he was lost from her.

He didn't even know much about her mission. "It has to be secret!" Amy had told him. "If you know too much, you could accidentally spill, and you never know when German ears are listening."

So Dan had kept his mouth shut, and bid his sister a painful goodbye. The experience still stung, like a wasp sting, and he hated to think of his sister, waving a tearful goodbye, as she boarded the plane that was to take her to who-knows-where.

The plane had taken off, and the world Amy had left behind had been bleak, and empty. Her stallion had even seemed to understand the loss, and had nickered softly whenever Dan had come in, as if asking, "Where's Amy?"

Where was she? What was she doing? Was she safe? These questions had haunted Dan for the forty-eight hours that she had been gone. Dan had even caught grumpy old Aunt Beatrice staring out the window, murmuring, "Amy, girl. Where are you?"

Dan hadn't known the old woman knew how to care for someone. He hadn't known there was an ounce of love in her entire shriveled heart.

But everyone loved Amy. They loved everything about her, from the way she smiled, to the way she sat down next to you, full of grace, and placed her hand comfortingly on your arm. It was her way of saying, "I'm here. Don't worry. Everything will be ok."

Jesse Owens had asked Dan to take Amy's spot on the council of agents. It was stuffy, boring, and Dan could only wonder why Amy had ever chosen to do this.

But as he thought about it, he realized he knew. It was for a cause that she believed in. It was for something she loved, cared for. It was her passion. Her heart hurt at the thought of all those dying in the war, and she wanted to do something to help them. It was just her.

Dan determined, right then and there, while staring at Jesse Owen's dark head, that because his sister had believed in this cause, he would too.

And he would give his life, if necessary, because that's what Amy would have done. And who knew, maybe she already sacrificed it.

 _Frankfurt, Germany. 1940_

Jesse had given her a map of the city, but Amy had always been a dunce at reading maps. The lines that symbolized roads confused her, and she never bothered to look at the key.

Ditching the map in a nearby trash heap, she urged her horse over to where a man stood, looking around him at the buildings in disarray, and the gray sky. Amy knew why he was looking with such a horrified expression.

The city was ugly. Women did not know how to keep up the outside of a house. With their men off to fight in the war, the outside of the normally religious-German-neat houses were filthy. Shutters were falling off windows, siding was stained black, and falling off. The general up-keep of the houses was not good.

From astride her horse, Amy looked down at the man, who was still staring at the one house that was slightly neat. His overcoat was shabby, and his eyes were full of a deep sadness as he looked up at her.

"Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?" He asked, not quite meeting her eyes.  
 _"How can I help you?"_

Amy's horse moved slightly, putting his weight on a different foot. Shifting her weight so that she was in the right place on the saddle, she answered, "Kannst du mich zur 7th Street leiten?"  
 _"Could you direct me to 7th street?"_

The man's eyes narrowed. "Warum?" His voice was rough, cold. His face was unshaven, and his eyes gleamed menacingly.  
 _"Why?"_

Amy nearly cried out in frustration. "Sir! Ich bin gerade aus Polen zurückgekommen! Ich war nie sehr gut in der Navigation durch die Stadt, und jetzt, jetzt, es ist alles so anders! Bitte hilf mir!" Tears, real tears, gathered in her eyes. She was frustrated, she was cold, and this man was so . . . unhelpful it made her want to scream.  
 _"Sir! I just got back from Poland! I was never very good at navigating around the city, and now, now, it's all so different! Please help me!"_

The man frowned. "Polen?"  
 _"Poland?"_

Amy nodded. "Ja !Sie haben meinen Mann getötet, Herr Hellmann-Vielleichthaben Sie von ihm gehört?-und Sie haben mich gefangen genommen. Ich konnte nur entkommen."  
 _"They killed my husband, Herr Hellmann -perhaps you've heard of him?-and they took me captive. I've only just managed to escape."_

The man's eyes wandered away from hers. "Ordnung. Ich bringe dich in die Heimat von Frau Hellmann, wo du früher gelebt hast, das heißt."  
 _"Alright. I'll take you to the home of Frau Hellmann, where you used to live, that is."_

Amy pretended to be shocked. "Was ist damit passiert? Was ist mit meinem Haus passiert?"  
 _"What happened to it? What happened to my home?"_

The man looked down at the ground. Grabbing the horse's reins, he sighed, and began, "Es ist nichts mehr davon übrig, wirklich. Aber ich nehme an, die Nazis werden dir helfen." He began to walk forward, leading the horse. It was such an incomplete explanation that it made Amy want to scream.  
 _"There's nothing left of it, at all, really. But I suppose the Nazis will help you."_

"Oh." Amy said, and then they lapsed into silence. There was nothing more to say. The silence seemed to comfort the man, as he lead Amy and her horse through a broken city, and with the war hardly begun.

 _Location Unknown. Meeting of the Lucian Branch, 1940_

The sun was shining down upon the men as they talked, and argued in the open air. The Lucian meeting was taking place in the open, something only the daring Lucians would attempt.

It was going wonderfully, as wonderfully as it could, with a branch torn in two. With some supportive of Hitler, and others not, there was going to be some disputing.

And what disputing there had been! Already one man, a Colonel Stauffenberg, had been badly injured. His position in the German army would be on hold until he had recovered from his two broken legs, and badly battered head.

A woman stood up, her eyes flashing. "We cannot let Hitler take control of all of Europe, as his plan is. If we allow him to do that, he -"

Another man scoffed from next to her. "Sit down, Natalyia. If Hitler takes over, condition will be just perfect. He will be able to infiltrate other branches base's, and Lucians will be dominant. Once and for all. We will rule the Cahill world, and the other branches will be powerless to stop us!"

Natalyia frowned. "Yes, but think of the people."

Another woman, an Isabel Kabra snorted. "People? Oh, you mean the innocent bystanders in the Cahill world. As it is, they are already being used, and many are being slaughtered daily during the hunt for the clues. Why not kill a few more?" Her voice was shrill, and her eyes blazed with a fire that would not easily go out.

Natalyia sadly shook her head. "No. No! They are not simply pieces on a gameboard to be toyed with! They are living souls! We're talking about lives here!"

A man across from Natalyia nodded. "She does have a point, Isabel."

Isabel's face twisted. "Are you on her side too? Do I need to have someone break your face, like Stauffenberg's?"

The man hurriedly shook his head. "No! No! I'm just saying that . . . . humans aren't like chess pieces. We can't replace them if they all die. We have to use them wisely."

A slow smile spread across Isabel's face. "Right. You're right! Perhaps I should have a chat with Hitler. We'll be drafting the Tomas first. Let them win our battles, and then we'll call in the two other idiot branches."

Natalyia hesitantly raised her hand. "Isabel, the Madrigals . . . "

Isabel waved away Natalyia's suggestion with a flick of her hand, "Forget Madrigals." She said. "They'll never be able to take down Lucians. We've got too much of an advantage."

And all Natalyia could think was, "If only you knew."

 _Location Unknown. Meeting of the Tomas Branch, 1940_

A huge, beefy fist slammed down on the table-top, causing it to rock. "I have had enough of all of our Tomas being drafted into the army. The Lucians have too much power, and they're using us to accomplish their nasty bloody schemes."

Roosevelt was calm. "Yes, but there's nothing we can do about it. I am NOT entering into this war. First of all, I do not want to send men across the Atlantic, when there's German U-boats waiting to eat our ships!"

Eisenhower Holt frowned. "So we have to sit here and do nothing? That's our family over there!"

The man which had slammed his fist down on the table did it again. The table rocked, and it seemed to groan internally. Mary-Todd Holt glared at the man. "Don't do that, or else we'll have to come up with an explanation to the hotel manager why their table is broken. It's going to be hard enough explaining why our room was so loud. I am not a Lucian, I can not come up with lies on the spot, thank goodness."

Hamilton rolled his eyes. "Right. But we don't have time to worry about that. We need to figure out a way to stop Lucians from drafting Tomas into their army first!"

Ivan Kleinster sighed. "There's no time. There's no time. We just don't have enough time. By the time we figure out what to do, they'll already have killed half of our men."

The man who had slammed his fist on the table brightened. "Why don't we order them to refuse their draft calls?"

Roosevelt gasped. "Brilliant, man, brilliant! I say we do it!"

Hamilton nodded, speaking to the president-to-be easily. "And they should be strong enough to beat up anyone who tries to come get them."

Mary-Todd frowned. "Don't forget we're dealing with Lucians, darling."

The man with the temper bit his lip. "It's our only hope, right now. All in favor?"

Ivan Kleinster, head of the Tomas, was the first to raise his thick, meaty hand.

 _Location Unknown. Meeting of the Janus, 1940_

Cora Wizard shook her head. "That simply wouldn't work. We're not going to battle against the Lucians! All we're worried about it protecting art that's everywhere."

The man across from her sputtered, "And the only way to do that is to battle them."

A woman with exceptionally long fingernails drummed hers on the beautifully etched glass table-top. "Or join forces with them."

Cora shook her head. "A union of branches has only been done once, when going against Napoleon, and that didn't turn out so well. I say we keep separate, and protect our art."

A young girl, in her teens, frowned as she looked at a list. "Cora?" She said, trying to get the branch leader's attention. "Lucians own most of the paintings, most of the pottery works, most of the statues which our agents have carved, and the ones that aren't owned by one Lucian in particular seem to be on Lucian property."

Cora sucked in her breath. "Isabel Kabra has done a good job, I'll give her that. Her little puppet, Hitler, is bound to make a mistake sometime."

Jonah, a famous pianist and organist frowned. "They've got their fingers stuck in our pockets."

Cora frowned. "I know. That's what I was afraid of. We will not join forces with them. Jonah, I want you to compose a song that will be our code song. I want it to be good, yet adaptable enough so that we can slip messages into it without the public noticing."

Jonah nodded, his eyes gleaming. "I've got just the song."

 _Location Unknown. Meeting of the Ekaterina, 1940._

"The atomic bomb must not be discovered by the Japenese nor by Hitler. If its discovered, we'll be doomed."

A tall girl with red hair rolled her eyes. "And give away our most guarded secret?"

Her brother, Ned, nodded his agreement. "We can't just give away something that we've been working on for years!"

Ted sat next to Ned, scribbling something on a piece of paper. His eyes scanned the page, and his fingers flew as he sketched something only an Ekaterina could understand. His eyes lit up, and he looked up at all the Cahills staring at him, anxiously waiting for what he had to say.

"If my calculations are correct, and they always are, we could bomb all of Germany, and the surrounding countries, with a single atomic bomb."

A woman frowned. "But not all of them are on Germany's side! We can't just bomb innocent people."

Sinead sighed. "Sometimes innocent lives have to be sacrificed, in order for the un-innocent to be stopped." She drummed her fingers in a pattern on the highly engineered table top. Her nails clacked noisily in the silent room.

The woman who had spoken earlier shrugged. "Whatever. But remember, there's family over there, and if all of a sudden, tons of Ekaterina get up and leave, we'll be in trouble. Lucians won't let something that large slip under their nose unnoticed."

Ned nodded. "Of course. But . . . . sometimes Cahills will have to be sacrificed."

A man, who had previously been silent, stood up. His eyes blazed hot fire, and if he had been a dragon, his breath would have been smoky. "You forget. Cahills, no matter their rank, must not be sacrificed." His eyes did not change. "We cannot let innocent Cahills be sacrificed, if Cahills can be called innocent." When he spoke, it looked as if he was baring his teeth at those around him. "How would you like it if you were one of the Cahills who had not been called to the council. Ned, Ted, Sinead, the only reason you, in the stupidity of your youth, are here is because of your brains. If it were not for that, you would be sitting at home, a chicken waiting to be plucked. Waiting to be destroyed by a bomb." The man sat down.

The triplets shared a knowing glance, and then nodded. "You're right, sir." It was Ned who had spoke. He bowed his head, and stared at the plastic table top.

Ted did the same, but Sinead stared the man in the eye. "Well then, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes, what do you recommend we do?"

The man's eyes once more flashed, but he kept silent about the girl's rudeness. "Use it on Japan."

Everyone at the table gasped in surprise. The man's face was serious. "We've heard about how they've been threatening China. They have plans, as some of my agents have told me. We'll wait, and we'll know when to use it, and how."

* * *

 **Dun dun dun! I'm kidding.**

 **Well . . . all . . . what do you think? Did you know that "Frau" actually means "woman" and not "Mrs."?**

 **Did you know that Fuhrer means leader? I thought it meant Father for a while, but Nazi Germany actually called Adolf Hitler their natural leader.**

 **I think that's just so fascinating.**

 **ALSO . . . did you know Adolf Hitler was a vegetarian?**

 **I leave you with that thought while I sign off.**

 **Begging for reviews,**

 **Addict**


	3. Chapter 3

Amy stood in front of what was left of Frau Hellman's house. It was magnificent, and she didn't understand why the man had told her it was "destroyed".

Twisting arches framed the veranda. Roses would have climbed up many a whitewashed fence, and the flower garden was neatly mulched. Not a dead weed could be seen anywhere, its frozen brown limbs reaching stupidly for light it could not receive.

Whoever had taken care of this house had done a good job. Walking up the veranda steps, she stopped at the door. Should she knock? Should she just go in?

She vaguely remembered a riddle her mother had told her.

 _A woman is sitting in her hotel room, knitting lace. There's a knock on her door, and she gets up to answer it. A man is standing there, and he says, "Oh, I'm so sorry. I thought that this was my room."_

 _Shutting the door, the woman calls security. What gave her reason to do this?_

"If it was his room, the man wouldn't have knocked." Amy mumbled. Opening the door, she marched right in.

The room was cold, and drafty. Beautiful imported China vases sat neatly arranged on shelves around the large, airy room.

The frigid air wrapped itself around Amy's frail shoulders. Opening her mouth, she spoke in German in case anyone was listening. "Werfen wir einen Blick um diesen Ort und sehen, ob alles war, wie ich es verlassen."  
 _"Let's take a look around this place and see if everything was how I left it."_

Her real reason for saying this was because she had no clue where the heating stoves where, nor where the coal, (if there was any left) was. Nor did she know where her money was, and she had absolutely no clue what the heck she was going to eat.

Suddenly, a cold hand was placed on her shoulder. The scream had left Amy's mouth, and was ringing in the icebox-air before she had a chance to think.

Whirling around, she looked into the face of an old woman. The woman gasped. "Lotte? Bist du das?"  
 _"Lottie? Is that you?"_

Amy nodded. "Ja." Biting her lip, she continued, "Wer bist du und was machst du in meinem Haus?"

 _"Yes." ... "Who are you and what are you doing in my house?"_

The woman's mouth fell open. "Honig? Kennst du mich nicht?"

 _"Honey? Don't you know me?"_

Amy cringed. Mistake number one.

* * *

 _Poland, 1940_

The man noticed the basket of strawberries, and remembering the previous meeting between "Mrs. Smit", he stood up. He was hungry for some strawberries.

The street were frozen solid, and he wondered where the woman had gotten strawberries. As he approached the woman closer, and passed her, he noticed her well-worn hands, and how dry they were.

 _Washer woman,_ He concluded. These women's hands were always rough and gnarled from the hours spent doing someone else's laundry. Most likely someone had given her these strawberries as pay.

He stepped into an alley, waiting for the woman to pass by. Minutes passed, and still the woman had not come by.

He stepped out into the bright sunlight, and nearly gasped in surprise. The woman was gone, and there were no houses in this part of town. This road meandered through farmer's fields, gently rolling hills, and occasional huts with dingy alleys between.

Where had the woman gone? Then it struck him. She had cut through a field. But the question was, which one?

The woman under suspicion had evaded him, for now.

* * *

Reaching her destination, which was actually back in town, the woman smiled. Evading that man had been such a piece of _cheesecake._ She smiled as the thought occured to her.

The man had passed her when he saw she was going out of town, and it had been easy for her to turn around, and slip into the bare bushes on the side of the country road.

She had waited patiently until he had slipped out of the alley, his face etched with confusion. She had smiled to herself as she saw him start stumbling across a frozen field, mud and straw frozen into cold, hard lumps that tripped a body when they walked.

The woman's in whose house she was in was chattering away. Then, pausing, she looked down. "Why did I see you go out of town, and them come meandering back as though you had just gone for a stroll?"

Smiling, she responded, "I just felt like taking an extra walk. All this cheesecake I've been eating has certainly made the fat begin to stick to me like glue."

The woman's eyebrows arched. Then her mouth dropped open as the double meaning occured to her. "You just evaded a Nazi agent?"

Shrugging her shoulders, she smiled coyly. "Maybe. But that's not what matters right now. We have a cheesecake to be baked. I have some guests coming over tonight, and I was wondering if I could bring them over for a slice of your delicious strawberry cake."

The woman twisted her lips. "As long as they don't eat all of it, they can come. Are you taking them on a dessert tour, or something?"

Nodding, she said, "I'll leave the strawberries with you. There's some instructions on my sauce, just in case you wanted to cover your cheesecake with it."

The woman nodded. "Off with you, then! I have a cheesecake to make, and you cannot see how it is done!"

 _Later_

There was a knock on her door. Pulling the most perfect cheesecake out of her oven, the woman stepped over to the door and opened it.

Her earlier visitor is standing outside. But beside her are two guests, with shawls pulled tight around their bodies.

Smiling as though it was a normal social gathering, she announced loudly, "Come in, come in!" They stepped inside, and she announced, "My! You're letting in freezing cold air, honey!" She quickly shut the door, and then, in a hurried whisper, she said, "Are these the "strawberries" you were talking about?"

The other woman nodded. "Yes. I cannot keep them. I am already under suspicion. If you would keep them, even if it was just for two weeks, it would be such a help."

So much can happen in a week. Even more can happen in a week when the world is at war. She knew this, yet she nodded her head. "I have just the place for you to hide. It's going to be cold, but its the only place I can think of that will be safe. Are any of you afraid of cows?"

* * *

Cara's feet were freezing. Her fingers trembled, and she feared she looked ungrateful. She wasn't ungrateful, really.

She just wished that they had been given somewhere warmer to sleep. A barn was hardly the place to keep warm in, although the cows did add a little warmth.

The woman who was to be their host motioned towards a ladder, and said, "You might want to stay up there, in the darkest corners. My son won't see you if you're quiet."

Cara nodded, and stepped onto the first rung of the rickety ladder. Her thin, tattered dress clung to her knees, and she struggled to step up to the next step.

Her fingers, however hard she tried, would not let go of the rung she was clutching to grab the next. She was so cold. She was oh-so-ever-cold, and all she wanted to do was sleep.

She heard her mother mumble something to the woman, and then, her eyes shut, and it was ever so black. But it was so warm, and Cara wished she could stay forever.

* * *

 _Frankfurt, Germany, 1940_

The tears came, but of their own accord. Amy sobbed, and blubbered, "Nein. Ich weiß nicht, wer Sie sind. Ich bin so verwirrt. Bitte sag es mir!"

 _"No. I don't know who you are. I'm so confused. Please tell me."_

The woman's face softened. "Natürlich nicht, kleines Mädchen. Es tut mir leid. Du hast so viel durchgemacht. Setz dich hin und ich mache dir eine Tasse Tee und vielleichteine Schüssel Brühe. Und dann reden wir." She stood up and bustled away, her limp skirts rustling about her legs.

 _"Of course you don't, little girl. I'm sorry. You've been through so much. Why don't you sit down, and I'll make you a cup of tea, and maybe of bowl of broth. And then we'll talk."_

Amy nodded. "Aber bitte... sagen Sie mir jetzt. Wer bist du?" She needed to know who this woman was before she made any other mistakes.

 _But please . . . tell me now. Who are you?_

The woman's smile was broad, almost too bright, as she answered. "Ich bin Ian Kabra's Magd." At Amy's gasp of astonishment, which she took to be recognition, she continued, "Ich dachte, du würdest mich erkennen. Er wohnt schon eine Weile in deinem Haus. Trauer kam zu ihm, der arme Mann. Er ist einfach nicht dasselbe."  
" _Why, I'm Ian Kabra's maid. I thought you'd recognize me ". . . . . . "He's been staying at your house for a while. Grief got to him, the poor man. He just isn't the same."_

Amy bit her lip. When was this Ian Kabra going to get here? Was he going to . . . . _touch_ her? The question haunted her. She wasn't ready. She would never be.

Nodding slowly, she said. "Sagen wir ihm nicht, dass ich zurück bin, nur noch."  
 _"Let's not tell him I'm back, just yet."_

The woman nodded coyly, "Ah, ja! Ich verstehe perfekt. Sollst du in sein Schlafzimmer gehen und ihn überraschen? Das wäre viel Spaß, denke ich. Ich würde gerne den Blick auf sein Gesicht sehen, wenn er dich auf seinem Bett liegend sieht!"

 _"Ah, yes! I understand perfectly. Shall you go up to his bedroom and surprise him? That would be great fun, I think. I'd love to see the look on his face when he sees you lying on his bed! "_

Amy's face dropped. That was not what she meant. Shaking her head wildly, she realized she still had one card to play. Summoning all her willpower, she gathered tears into her eyes, and cried, "Nein! Nein! Nein!" She sank to the floor, crying.

The woman's face displayed pure shock, and she dropped to her knees next to the sobbing girl. "Was ist los, Liebling?"  
 _"What's wrong, honey?"_

Amy's tears fell freely. She placed her palms on the carpet, and bent her head. "Ich bin nicht bereit. Ich habe Angst vor dem, was er von mir denkt. Ich bin so verändert. Sie . . . Sie mir weh, und ich habe so viel verändert."  
" _I'm not ready. I'm scared of what he'll think of me. I'm so changed. They . . . they hurt me, and I've changed so much . . ."_

The woman's face was all astonishment. Her eyes blinked rapidly, and tears came to her eyes too. "Die Kühe!" She opened her mouth to say something else, but instead gathered Amy into a hug.  
 _"The cows!"_

The woman's ample girth folded Amy in, and she felt warm, secure. The hug was comforting, although not for the reasons the woman suspected.

And then the door swung open, and Amy saw the person with which she was to have an affair.

* * *

 _Home of the Waltz, 1940_

His mind was wandering.. The music they were playing was putting him to sleep. Blue Danube Waltz had always done that to him. He liked his sleep. He wondered what his wife was doing.

Was she lying cold in bed, stiff with terror, afraid to come down, afraid to see? Or was she sleeping? Was she thinking that her husband next to her in bed, where he belonged? Was she softly crying to herself?

The notes of the waltz droned on and on. The rippling, harsh notes, which had normally called him to attention, warned him to stay away now seemed to put him into a deep sleep.

Was the man holding tightly to his arm doing this? Had they put a drug in the air? Were they going to kidnap him?

Suddenly his heart was beating, as fast as the rhythm of a galloping horse's hooves. His active imagination imagined himself falling asleep, and awakening to find that he was in a cell, being tried for working actively against Germany.

Would his beliefs kill him? He was so tired of war, yet it had scarcely begun.

The sudden stop of the music jerked him to attention. The men were talking to each other, in German.

 _Fools._ The man thought. Did they not realize he understood German? He had to resist a smile as he stared stupidly ahead, pretending he couldn't understand the vulgar words they were speaking against him. They thought he was an idiot, pretending to spy, pretending to do great works against their "Fatherland", Germany. They thought he was a pretender.

And then they shoved him to the floor, muttering, "Sie Idioten-Pretender. Du denkst, du weißt alles! Aber das tust du nicht. Haben wir! Wir werden den Krieg gewinnen und dein Land übernehmen, Dummkopf."  
" _You idiot pretender. You think you know everything! But you do not. We do! We will win the war, and take over your country, stupid."_

They left, slamming the door behind them with a bang. The Waltz lay where he had fallen, gulping in deep, sweet breaths of air, purified from the lack of Germans. His heart still hammered loudly at the close call he had just experienced.

Thankfully, they didn't know that the Blue Danube Waltz meant "Stay Away. Danger."

He only wondered what his neighbors would think . . . . imagine! Him playing the piano at three o'clock at night!

* * *

 _Frau Hellman's Home, Frankfurt, Germany, 1940_

Terror. That was all that she knew. Would he recognize her as an impostor? As someone who didn't belong? Would he expect her to - gulp - sleep with him?

She looked closer at him, and from her position on the floor, it wasn't a very good look. She got an amazing view of him from the waist down. Craning her neck, she looked up into the face of Herr Ian Kabra for the first time.

Gorgeous amber eyes stared back at her. His face was smooth shaven, and his eyes glittered with a funny light that she hoped wasn't lust. His mouth was twisted, and he asked his maid, sharply. "Who is this?"

He didn't recognize her. She was caught. Once and for all. Her mission was finished before it had even begun. She shut her eyes.

Just as Amy was about to bow her head and confess, she felt the maid's arms drop, and heard her struggling to get to her feet. She kept her eyes shut. The moment dragged on.

The maid's voice was strong when she spoke. "Herr Kabra, Das ist keine Möglichkeit, eine Dame zu behandeln, und Ihre Geliebte an, dass. Das ist Frau Hellmann, aus Polen zurückgekehrt. Ich schlage vor, Sie geben ihr einen warmen Gruß, gerade jetzt."  
 _"That is no way to treat a lady, and your mistress at that. This is Mrs. Hellmann, returned from Poland. I suggest you give her a warm greeting, right now."_

The man turned a dark red. His skin was fairly dark, so his face could not turn quite the same shade of bright red that Amy's did. "Lottie? Lottie? Bist du das wirklich?"  
 _"Lottie? Lottie? Is that really you?"_

He bent down next to her, and taking her hand, placed it to his lips. "Willkommen Zurück." He said, smiling, although his lips were on Amy's hand.

Suddenly all Amy was focused on was the fact that her hand was rough. Was "Lottie's" hand rough? Did Herr Kabra like the feel of her rough hands? Then shame filled her. She had just met this man, and she was worried. Shrugging internally, she thought, "All he'll think is that they're rough from misuse in Poland."

"Danke." She said, looking down at the floor. Did Lottie look at the floor when Ian kissed her, or did she look into his eyes?

She would never know. There was only so much that could be told.

Herr Kabra's mouth was off her hand, and he was talking to her, "Wo möchtest du schlafen? Dies ist Ihr Haus, und ich bin nicht daran gewöhnt, wo Sie Ihre Nächte verbringen."  
 _"Where would you like to sleep? This is your house, and I am unaccustomed to where you spend your nights."_

Amy gulped. She had no clue where anything was in this house, let alone where the bedrooms were. She couldn't exactly say, "I'd like to sleep in the fourth bedroom on the upstairs floor." She didn't even know if there were bedrooms on the upstairs floor, let alone if there were four!

She smiled. "The master bedroom, of course." Then she realized she had spoken in English. Herr Kabra and the maid stared at her, as though she had just sprouted another head.

She stared back at them dumbly, unaware of what to say. Shrugging internally, she decided on the first thing that popped into her mind. "Oh, meine Güte! Es tut mir leid. Ich habe leider nur Englisch in einem deutschen Haushalt gesprochen. Ich fürchte jedoch, dass ich das wieder tun könnte, da die Leute, die mich hielten, nur Englisch absichtlich sprach und mich zwangen, es zu erlernen. Und ich habe es gelernt!" She sucked in a deep breath, and smiled reassuringly at the two people who were staring at her.  
 _"Oh my goodness! I'm sorry. I'm afraid I just spoke English in a German household. I am afraid however, that I might do that again, seeing as the people who kept me only spoke English purposely, forcing me to learn it. And learn it I did!"_

The maid smiled. "Natürlich, Liebes. Ich verstehe. Früher musste ich auch Englisch sprechen, als ich für ein englisches Ehepaar arbeitete, das für den Sommer in Deutschland wohnte. Leider dachten Sie, dass Deutsch zu hart für eine Sprache war, also beschränkten Sie mich darauf, es zu sprechen. Ich musste schnell Englisch lernen, und als ich in einen normalen deutschen Haushalt zurückkehrte, habe ich leider die ganze Zeit versehentlich Englisch gesprochen."  
 _"Of course, dearie. I understand. I used to have to speak English also, when I worked for an English couple who were residing in Germany for the summer. Unfortunately, they thought German was too harsh of a language, so they restricted me from speaking it. I had to learn English quickly, and when I went back to a normal German household, I'm afraid I accidentally spoke English all of the time."_

Amy was struggling to keep up with the woman's stream of chatter. She hoped she had gotten the jist of it, so she smiled coyly and said, "Ah . . . so that means us women can have private conversations in the kitchen . . . with or without listening ears."

The woman nodded. Winking at Herr Kabra, was staring blankly at the two, she said, "Yes! Of course."

Herr Kabra frowned. "Ich weiß, du hast gerade ja gesagt." He paused, and wrinkled his brow. "Aber das es."  
 _"I know you just said yes." . . . "But that's it."_

The maid smiled. "Gewöhnen Sie sich daran, Arschloch."

 _"Get used to it, asshole."_

Herr Kabra frowned. "Ich werde es tun müssen."  
 _"I'm going to have to."_

The maid nodded vigorously. "Das ist richtig, du ist richtig, du wirst."  
 _"That's right you will!"_

Amy laughed, grabbed the maid's arm, and led her away into the kitchen. "Ich möchte eine Tasse Tee."  
 _"I would like a cup of tea."_

* * *

 _Poland, 1940_

Cara awoke to an ear-shattering scream. Instinctively, she burrowed deeper into the pile of hay she was hiding in, and prayed that it was not the Gestapo.

It wasn't. In fact, it was the farthest thing from the Gestapo. The woman who had taken her in had found a spider.

Cara had to let the smile creep onto her face, although it seemed wrong, painful even, to smile in such a desperate time.

She peeked over, and saw the woman holding a pitchfork out at the unconcerned spider, who scurried up the wall, and into a crack in the barn wall.

Then she remembered someone could see her if she peeked out.

Fear gripped her, and she scurried back into the haystack, her heart beating. She knew it was irrational, but she couldn't help it.

She'd watched what the Gestapo did to the Jews they found, and it wasn't good.

She'd heard the screams of the women, the tortured sobs of the men, as they watched their wives being raped by the solders, and then heartlessly tossed into a cattle truck to be escorted to their new home-a death camp.

She remembered the savage look in the soldier's eyes as they dug into another's body with their swords.

And she knew she would never forget.

* * *

 **Helllllooooo! Thank you all for reading this! You don't know how much it pleases me to entertain you miserable half-wits. :PPPPPP**

 **AND! Ian Kabra is in!**

 **What do you all think?**

 **What's going to happen?**

 **Dun!Dun!Dun!**

 **What do you all think of me incorporating Cara into this?**

 **I'm thinking of throwing in a Jewish Jake too. Someone tell me if that would be a good idea.**

 **So . . . all . . . please remember to leave me a review and you will make my heart beyond happy.**

 **Thank you, and I love you all.**

 **-Addict**


	4. Chapter 4

The war picked up. Death was busy, gleaning souls from the fields of battle, which were watered with blood and mulched with gunpowder.

The days, months and a year passed by slowly for Amy, who struggled to maintain her identity as a German woman. She was living a lie, and it wore at her.

Often, she found herself wishing she could keep a journal, but she knew she could not, for if Ian found it . . .

 _Ian_. They had grown closer over the previous year, although he had not yet invited her to his bed.

He seemed wary of her, although his mouth often met hers in a searing fire that left Amy wondering what it would be like to sleep with him.

The life she lived was not hers, and she longed to see Jesse, or Dan. Once in a while, she would write a letter to either, which she would immediately burn.

If the maid asked what she was doing, she told her it was reflections on her life in Poland, which she didn't care to show anyone . . . just yet.

It was springtime now, and she had been a resident of Ian Kabra's house for a little over a year. The flowerbeds which she had admired, even in their dormant state, were truly beautiful, and they were beginning to bloom again.

The roses crept up the white fences, the tulips waved in the breeze. Luscious green grass covered the yard behind the house, an elegent carpet in a castle owned by the trees.

Digging her hands into the dirt gave Amy strength and it helped her cope. Many a time had she spent with her hands deep in the black soil.

She loved to climb the tree that dominated the yard, find the best branch and settle down into it with a book.

Yesterday however, she had noticed that she could see a long way in the tree, and everyone knew she liked to read up in the towering branches, and feel the wind on her face, so no one suspected anything of it.

She sat against the towering trunk, a book in her grasp, her eyes wandering the streets. The book was of no interest to her, she just wanted to know when Ian would be home.

There was something about the man that snagged her, caught her, like cloth in a bramble bush. She was powerless in his handsome clutches, a mouse in the cat's claws.

He fascinated her, occupied her thoughts, and every time she composed a letter to Dan or Jesse (which she immediately burned) she found herself mentioning Ian, even when she tried not too.

Sighing, she stared down at her hands and realized the only thing that would solve her problems today was a ride.

She still had the elegent Friesian given to her by the man who had taken her from the other man's house. She smiled to herself as she realized that was how she thought of them. Man One, and Man Two.

They hadn't offered names, or anything about themselves. Which was fine, but she still wished they had least told her something about themselves, so she could call them something. Man-who-likes-ice-cream, or, Man-who-is-scared-of-spiders. Something like that.

But they hadn't, and she supposed that it would be best if she went for a ride.

Scrambling quickly down from the tree, she ran towards the barn, her hair streaming out behind her. Rats. She'd forgotten to braid it again.

Stopping, she reached behind and quickly plaited it into a complicated braid that Ian had once complemented.

Sighing, she realized that she often did just that-doing something that Ian had complemented, or said he liked-just to get his attention.

Shrugging the thought off, she ran towards the barn where her horse waited. He whinnied when he saw her, and she reached out a hand and scratched him behind the ears.

He leaned in at her scratch, reminding Amy of how much she loved her horse. He was an amazing guy, with a great personality.

If he had been a human, Amy would have married him right away. Unfortunately, he wasn't a human, and she wasn't a horse, so the best thing she could do was saddle him up and ride off.

Frankfurt was an idiotic city. The people were struggling to find food to eat, for the farmers were the first drafted. Those who were not drafted were either not able-bodied enough to work, as Germany didn't want weaklings in the Führer's army. Because of this, food became super scarce, and prices sky-rocketed.

Amy didn't have to worry about this, because Ian Kabra was a member of the Nazi party, and Nazis didn't have to worry about food, and the Nazis always received the best anyway.

But worst of all, there was only one open field which was suitable for a good gallop and it was half-way across town and there was traffic to contend with.

But today Amy was in the mood, so she was going to go all the way there, even if it was just for a short gallop. She knew both she and the horse would appreciate it.

Lugging the saddle off the hook on the wall, she quickly saddled and bridled her black mount, and mounted. She was ready to de-stress.

Clicking with her tongue, she urged the horse forward, and out of the barn. His horseshoes left dents in the soft grass. Amy groaned. Ian was going to be mad about that, as was the maid, since it would be her job to "undo" the prints.

Shrugging that thought off, she squeezed her legs, and shifted her weight forward in the saddle, signalling to her horse that he could go faster.

He jumped forward, pulling at the bit. She could feel the excitment in his blood, even with a saddle pad and saddle between her body and his back.

The sound of his hooves rang out on the cobblestones, and he trotted faster and faster; Amy laughed with exhilaration. This was what she lived for.

The wind gently brushed her face, turning her cheeks a lovely red color. Her eyes stared straight ahead of her but her great mood instantly evaporated when she saw the traffic.

Sitting down in the saddle, she gently pulled on the reins, asking the horse to slow down. He did and they plodded forward into traffic.

There were no cars, but busy pedestrians lined the street, obnoxiously hogging it, as if they owned the place since all of the cars were gone.

Occasionally, a horse pulling a cart came by, but mostly pedestrians ran free throughout the street, embracing the empty streets, void of regular traffic laws.

As soon as the thought entered her mind, a car tore through the streets, blaring its horn.

Amy's horse panicked, and before she knew what was happening, the horse was rearing, its two hooves pawing the air. The car screeched to a halt next to Amy, and a man leaned out, the aroma of smoke heavy around him.

His face was rough; his eyes were as hard as steel, and he glared at Amy with all the love of a tiger at a deer.

Amy struggled to bring her horse down to the ground, and the man seemed to find this amusing. "Ganz Reiterin, was?"  
 _"Quite the horsewoman, eh?"_

Amy's face turned a lovely shade of red. As soon as her horse was under control, she blurted, "Sie scheinen nicht zu wissen, wie man mit einem Auto umgeht, Mr.-I-Barrel-durch-crowded-Straßen."  
 _"You don't seem to know how to handle a car, Mr.-I-barrel-through-crowded-streets."_

The man's eyes hardened even more than they already had, and it made Amy's stomach churn with nervousness. "Weißt du, wer ich bin?"  
 _"Do you know who I am?"_

Amy shook her head. "Ein hochstehender Nazi?"  
 _"A high standing Nazi?"_

The man nodded, his gaze wandering over Amy's body. "Ja." He didn't say anything else, just stared at her atop her horse, his eyes peering at places that no decent man would stare.

The horse shifted his weight, and Amy quickly spoke, the words flying from her mouth before she had time to think. "Ich gehe am besten, Sir. Mein Pferd braucht seine Übung."  
 _"I'd best be going, sir. My horse needs his exercise."_

"Wirklich?" His eyes stopped at her breasts, then slowly wandered down to her groin. " Ich weiß zufällig, einen anderen Mann, der einige Übung auch braucht, Reiten eine schöne Frau."  
 _"Really? I happen to know another man who needs some exercise too, riding a beautiful woman."_

Amy gulped. This did not sound like it was heading in a good direction . . . at all. "Bitte . . . nein. Bitte."  
 _"Please . . . no . . . please."_

The man lowered his voice. "Ja . . . bitte." He mockingly echoed the pleading desperateness that was in her voice. Opening his car door, he stepped out, shut the door, and in one fluid motion, moved quickly towards Amy and grabbed her horse by the bridle. "Du wirst mich haben... gerne... oder ich werde dich kraftvoll haben."  
 _"You will have me . . . willingly . . . or I will have you forcefully."_

Amy shook her head. "Nein. Bitte." She was near tears, and desperate. The man was keeping a firm grip on her horse, and his eyes were wandering over her again. She was more than uncomfortable, she was terrified.

"Nein. Bitte." The man mimicked. "Ich werde dick kraftvoll."  
 _"I will have you."_

"Nein!" She was getting desperate. The man reached up and put one hand around her waist. He lifted her up, trying to pull her off the horse. The man was strong. He held onto the horse, and lifted her off easily, despite her best efforts at staying on.

As soon as she was on the ground, he pulled her to him. His breath was disgusting on her neck, and his eyes were filled with lust. His auburn hair stuck up like a knife, it seemed as though he would cut her with it.

His lips against hers were disgusting and Amy struggled. Bringing her knee up, she tried to knee him in the groin, but it didn't work. His hand caught her knee, and shoved it back down to the ground.

As soon as his lips left hers, and he was gasping for breath, Amy screamed, "Jemand helfen mir! Jemand helfen mir, bitte!" But she knew no one would. No one would stand up to a Nazi. She was helpless. He would get what he wanted.  
 _"Someone help me! Someone help me, please!"_

The man growled something and his hands grabbed her waist. "Honig . . . " He murmured.

And suddenly Ian was there, delivering a sharp punch to the man's jaw. The man's eyes flashed, and he balled his fists and jabbed at Ian.

Amy saw her chance, and she took it. Jumping onto her horse, she kicked him into a full gallop, and sped away, her horse's hoofbeats ringing in the air.

Her heart pounded, and she leaned against her horse's neck, urging him to go on. Tears ran down her cheeks as she realized how close she had come to being raped.

If Ian hadn't showed up when he did . . .

And only then it occured to her. Why was Ian there? Had he been watching her? She was supposed to be watching him, and spying on his activities, but so far she had found nothing worthwhile to report. Ian's files were empty of important battle plans, or anything juicy like that.

In fact, his files were almost void of any material. It was only then that she began to wonder . . .

Tomorrow, when she was sure Ian was gone, she would do a thorough searching of his room.

* * *

 _Frankfurt, Germany, 1941_

His breath stung his throat. The wind was cold; the sky was as black as the ice over a deep pond. His breath steamed in the air, and in one hand, he held something that could easily get him killed: A bucket of white paint, and a paint brush.

He belonged to a recently organized secret organization of youth: The Edelweiss Pirates. Their symbol?-an Edelweiss flower, drawn underneath a message painted in white paint. The message?- _Hitler is killing our fathers._

The Edwelweiss Pirates refused to join the Hitler Youth, at least most of them. Some joined, just to avoid suspicion, but they were not actively involved. He was one of those.

Stefan Tiga was one of the ones who joined but not one of the ones exceled, who won the capture the flag games, which were really mock battles, minus the guns, the terror, and the blood.

It was quite simple to win, actually, and he knew he could win, but he had no desire to draw attention to himself, unlike some of the other boys, who tried their best just to get an approving nod from the Hitler Youth director, or maybe to be noticed by one of the older Hitler Youth members.

It was not so for him. He didn't care, and he failed on purpose, although he pretended to try.

He ran slower than a turtle running from a hungry predator, and was easily destroyed in the first five minutes of the "game". He had never "killed" anyone, nor had he even come close to capturing the flag.

But he could care less.

The boys mocked him, but he ignored their taunts, and secretly smiled to himself. They were idiots.

He could easily beat all of them-at everything-their foot races, their stupid mock battles, their push-up tournaments, their boxing matches, all of it.

His pretense had worked, and the boys all thought he was a weakling, a fool, and they probably thought he had some sort of mental problem too, although he wasn't quite sure about that.

Let them think that. It would be excellent. He was ignored on the street. No one asked where he was going, or what he was doing. He could slip by proud, puffy-chested Hitler Youth guards without a second glance.

No one asked what he carried in his bulging backpack.

But today it had gone all wrong. He had been seen, although from far away, but he knew it wouldn't take long to be recognized.

Everyone knew him as "Dumb-Stefan". He had dropped his backpack, and only gotten away with a few cans of paint. And unless hell froze, there was no way he could walk through town holding a white can of paint.

It would be like pasting a sign on his back that said, "I'm a member of the Edelweiss Pirates. Please arrest me and take me down to the Gestapo office."

"Arschloch!" He swore. The idiot boy just had to round the corner at the same time as he did.

And now he faced a huge dilema. Where was he to safely and securely hide a can of white paint?

He heard footsteps behind him. Desperately, he whipped his head around him, looking for a place. There! There, in a small crevice behind some rotting boards. It would have to work. He'd have to stage this just right.

Shoving the can and brushing past the boards, he went running towards the footsteps, widening his eyes, and rolling them around in his sockets. Let them think he was deranged.

Then, just as he rounded a corner, his foot caught on a board that was stuck out, and he tripped. Perfect.

It tore his knee open; the wound immediately began gushing blood. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he made no move to stop them. This was going better than he thought.

Let the fool who was after him think he was fooling around in the alley being an idiot deranged boy.

"Was machst du, junge?" A man's heavy voice rang out in the silence of the alley.  
 _"What are you doing, boy?"_

Stefan looked up into the eyes of the most hated enemy of Frankfurt's Edelweiss Pirates-the head of the Gestapo-Herr Fleming.

It had to be his luck.

* * *

 _Herr Kabra's Home, 1941_

Amy sat silently on the sofa, answering Ian's every question.

"Hog Er hat mich nicht berührt!"  
 _"No! He did not touch me!"_

Ian's eyes narrowed. "Bist du sicher? Es sah ziemlich schattigen von der Zeit, als ich ankam."  
 _"Are you sure? It looked pretty shady by the time I got there."_

"Ja. Ich bin sicher."

Ian stared at her. There was a compassion in his amber eyes. His Nazi uniform with its swastika embellished on his chest did not bother her, for she wasn't looking it.

Her eyes were focused on his face. It was full of sorrow, and another unreadable expression. Amy moved closer to him.

Opening his arms, he pulled her into a hug, and she buried her face in his chest. Inhaling deeply, she couldn't help but smell his scent-cloves, along with a sexy, manly smell that sent her insides churning.

"I'm sorry." He murmured.

Amy yanked back, alarm chorusing through her. "Seit wann sprichst du Englisch?"  
 _"Since when do you speak English?"_

Ian smiled down at her. "I've been practicing. I have a mission soon, and I was meaning to tell you."

Amy had to retain the excitement that flooded through her. "Eine Mission? Wo?"  
 _"A mission? Where?"_

"Britian." His voice was husky, and he leaned closer to her, nibbling on the tender skin of her neck Amy didn't notice.

"What are you going to do?" She asked, in what she hoped was broken English.

Ian took his mouth off her neck. "Spion? Do you know the English word for that?" He frowned, and looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, ja! Spy!"

Amy shrugged, even though she knew he was right.

He looked down at her, even though he was obviously preoccupied. Amy could feel the evidence on her stomach. "Hilfst du mir? Ich weiß, du weißt es besser als ich. Sie haben kaum einen Akzent, wenn Sie sprechen. Bitte?" Alarm once against coursed through her. She didn't have an accent when she spoke English? Of course she didn't! She was born in America, although she couldn't tell him that. But if he had noticed that . . . although he was the only one who had heard her . . .  
 _"Will you help me? I know you know it better than I do. You barely have an accent when you speak. Please?"_

Her brain began to hurt. "Ja. I vill . . . will help you."

Ian frowned. "No one says 'vill' for 'will'. I've heard you pronounce it right."

Amy almost jumped. How close had he been listening? "Of course." She smiled lightly. "Lesson number one! Pronounce your "w's", as the English call them." Her voice sounded fake, but Ian nodded.

"Ja! Ich meine . . . Yes!"

Ian smiled, and leaned in for a kiss. His hands wrapped around her back, and began tracing the buttons of her dress. And then, with his mouth to hers, he unbuttoned one of the buttons.

* * *

She awoke on Ian's chest, her heart hammering. The previous nights experience came back to her in a dizzying rush.

She didn't understand why, after a near-rape experience, Ian had chosen to sleep with her. Perhaps it was because he was a man. But he was definitely a sexy man, she would give him that.

Amy smiled as the thought occured to her, and she planted a kiss on Ian's neck. He twitched and his hands reached up, and pulled her back to his chest.

There was a smug little smile on his face, one that said, "I'm awake. But pretend I'm not." Except maybe he said it in German, which would be, "Ich bin wach, aber tu so, als wäre ich es nicht."

Smiling, Amy pushed herself off his chest, gave Ian another quick kiss, and picked up her clothes off Ian's bedroom floor.

She found herself wondering when she had come in, and then, as a quick afterthought, shoved one of her stockings under Ian's bed. Now if she was caught in here . . .

Hurriedly half-dressing, she went to her room and dressed in an elegent dress that complemented her small figure. Staring at herself in the mirror, she couldn't help but observe that her eyes were bright and that her cheeks were flushed. She made a perfect picture, which was just what she wanted.

She ascended the stairs, her feet padding lightly on the soft carpeted stairs. The dress' train swirled behind her, making her an elegant picture. At least . . . she hoped she did.

Frowning, she realized Ian was still sleeping, so she ran down the stairs, and jumped down to the landing. Walking briskly into the kitchen, she cut herself a slice of bread, buttered it, and ate it in two large bites.

The house was strangely silent. Even the maid wasn't around, and the stillness seemed to press in. The swirling of her dress on the carpeted floor seemed loud and obnoxious in the silence that resided in the dark rooms.

She sucked in a sharp breath as she heard a sharp knocking coming from the door. Wondering who could be knocking, she hurried towards the door, and opened it.

A figure dressed in all black stood on the porch, staring in. His eyes were shrouded in shadow, and he peererd past Amy into the house.

"Kann ich dir helfen?" She asked. The man peered past her, his eyes searching the house. "Ja?" She asked, feeling stupid.  
 _"Can I help you?"_

"Ist Herr Kabra hier?"

"Ja." Amy nodded. Ian was sleeping. Should she walk him up? Or should she tell the man in black that he was sleeping. She decided she should. "Er schläft."

The man in black frowned. "Frau Hellmann?"

This couldn't get any creepier. "Ja." She answered. "Kann ich der helfen?"

The man in black nodded. "Ja. Ich muss mit dir reden."  
 _"Yes. I need to talk to you."_

Amy searched the man's dark gaze. Nodding, she stepped out onto the porch, and shut the door behind her.

The man looked at her. His eyes were a jade green. Like hers.

"Amy." He shot her a significant glance, and she sucked in her breath.

"What?" Her voice was panicked.

"Jesse Owens is sending you a message."

Amy nodded. "What'd he say?" The English was flowing off her tongue fast. She had forgetton how good it felt to speak her native language out loud, instead of whispering it to her horse.

"I don't know." The man said, his jade eyes piercing her orbs, which were so similar to hers. "I don't read other's messages." He passed her an envelope, which had her name, her real name, written in elegant, swirly script on the creamy paper. He tipped his hat, and said, "That's all."

Amy nodded. "Thank you." She took one last look at the man in black, with the vivid green eyes, and, shutting the door behind her, opened the envelope and read the message inside.

Amy,  
I wish that you were here with me. However, seeing as I cannot pay an agent to send you a love letter, I must tell you the real reason I sent you this.  
There is a dangerous agent nearby. His Lucian/Ekaterina bloodlines make him a ruthless killer; if he finds out you're after him, you'll be killed.  
Last I heard he was the head Nazi/Gestapo somebody or other in Frankfurt. He is keeping an eye on you, as one of our sources tells us.  
I wish you luck, and please, be careful.  
Also . . . we haven't heard anything from you regarding Herr Kabra . . . is there a reason for this? Please send us something, or we will have to remove you.  
One more quick thing . . . Dan has taken your place and is doing a marvelous job in the Undercover of the US. He misses you, and when he heard I was sending you a message, he demanded that I tell you this: Ames . . . please . . . be careful. Please don't be sleeping with the Nazis . . . (He demanded that I insert a winky face, and I almost told him . . . you aren't sleeping with Herr Kabra, are you?) And . . . this is totally gross, but I love you, Amy. Please, don't get yourself killed. Cuz then you'd be dead and I'd have to survive without you. Dan.  
And, dear Amy, I must finish this.  
Watch out for the Edelweiss Pirates and don't be afraid to assist them. And . . .  
Amy . . . I still love you.  
Be careful.  
Always yours,  
Jesse

Her heart was beating a stacatto rythym, and her thoughts turned to the previous night. How could she? Jesse was the only one she wanted. Right?

She couldn't convince herself.

Groaning, she stuffed the letter deep into her dress, and hoped Ian wouldn't try to remove the dress today. That would certainly be disastrious, to say the very least.

But the Nazi agent? She knew exactly who it was. The man who had tried to rape her earlier was definately the one Jesse had been talking about.

Who else would be so ruthless, so heartless, so cruel?

But who were the Edelweiss Pirates? She couldn't just ask Ian . . . because he expected her to be a homebody, and she knew that if she suddenly asked him something like that . . . he would certainly become suspicious. Which was just what she did not need.

She'd just have to keep her eyes open a little wider, and sharpen all of her senses, keeping alert to even the smallest details. Jesse would be proud of her if she did.

Sighing, she leaned against the wall, her fingers tracing the flowery wallpaper, noting the swirly patterns in the beautiful flowers.

Her fingers ran over a red tulip. It was so perfect. It was perfectly stenciled into the wall, the light shades and dark shades combined to create a tulip that looked amazingly real.

Her eyes widened as all of a sudden she noticed something she hadn't ever noticed before. The tulip held the Lucian crest in the dark shades.

Stepping back, she glanced at all the other flowers, and her heart nearly stopped. She couldn't believe she'd never noticed it before.

There were more tulips that held the crest. But it was what they spelled that caused her heart to jump to her throat.

For there, in a fancy writing that would have taken a keen eye to observe, were the words, written in a fancy script, "Zerstöre alle, die in deinem Weg sind."

In English, this meant, "Destroy all who are in your way."

* * *

 _Location Unknown, 1941_

Isabel Kabra smiled, showing her pearly white teeth. "I'm sorry, sir. I was told to dismiss all Jews from the Lucian branch. I'm just following orders. You and your family are no longer members of the Lucian branch."

The man was shocked. "NO! Isabel." He fell on his knees before her. "Please! You don't understand! If you dismiss all the Jews you'll be destroying the branch."

Isabel shrugged. "How unfortunate. Adolfy will be quite mad at me if I allow you to stay. I don't want to lose my position as branch head now, do I?"

The man's eyes were wet. "I don't want to lose my position in the branch! Isabel, I was your right hand man! You can't do this."

Isabel smiled. "I already have."

The man's face twisted. "So you have, haven't you? I'll tell you right now. We're joining the Madrigals." The words were blunt and seemed to surprise even him.

Isabel laughed. "You don't even know what the Madrigals are, do you?"

The man glared up at her, still on his knees. He seemed to suddenly realize this, and he stood up, staring Isabel in the eyes. "I know more than you will ever know, Isabel Kabra."

Isabel smiled. "Fine then. Do me a favor, will you? As head of the synagogue, I'll expect you to tell all the Jewish Cahills that they're disowned."

The man's eyes hardened. "Really? I don't think the few American Jews will be happy to hear that."

Isabel smirked. "The rotten Americans will just have to get used to the idea that they're expelled from the Lucian branch."

The man glared one last time, spun on his heel, and walked off into the night. He had no intention of joining the Madrigals, but he knew the Janus and Ekaterina would be glad for the help. Maybe the Tomas would even be willing to accept them into their branches.

Only time would tell. And it would tell its story.

* * *

 **I've been using less and less German, so I hope you all don't mind. I'm hoping you can use context clues and the little bit you've learned from the previous chapters to interrupt.**

 ** **Thanks to all of you reviewed.****

 ** **Guest Lola? Your review was much appreciated... thank you for all of the CC, questions, etc.****

 ** **Innercornerhighlight? This chapter's for you because you're the one who made me update by reminding me about it. :DDDDDDD****

 ** **And to the rest of you who have reviewed? *yells* THANK YOU! *everyone uncovers their ears*****

 ** ***waves* *blows kisses*****

 ** **Bye guys! You know what will make me happy :P****


	5. Chapter 5

**_I'm back! :DDDDDDD_**

* * *

 _Somewhere Down South in North America, Years Prior_

The dust was everywhere, but the young Navajo didn't notice. He was used to it. The dust was a part of his life, a part of him, just as much as the sheep he watched, and the clothes on his back.

He jumped, every muscle in his body tensing as he heard someone calling his name. "Kii! Kii! Your uncle has arrived."

Fear, which had been coiled deep in his stomach, began to uncoil itself and wrap around every part of his body.

His uncle was not someone to be afraid of. Rather, he was afraid of where his uncle was to take him.

The mission school. The United States' government had declared that all Navajos must be educated in the white man's ways: basic mathematics, English classes, science, and social studies.

Of course, some Navajo had protested, refusing to send their children, but Kii's family had been overjoyed to send him.

They wanted him to get a good education, and show the White persons that their Navajo boy could do just the same as the "normal" white children.

And so Kii was going to the mission school. Today.

He stood up, and surveyed the dusty plain around him. The sheep were nibbling on the sparse, sharp grass. Their tiny hooves kicked up more dust as they walked.

Kii had grown to love the sheep. Their gentle ways, their knowing eyes, their soft wool that was perfect for burying one's face in . . . all of it.

He turned, tossed the staff to the boy behind him, and then turned away quickly, refusing to allow his acquaintance to see his tearful face.

With long strides, he ran up the rocky path, his bare feet hardly feeling the sharp stones that cut into his heel. The sun's heat was strong, but he hardly noticed. The sky was a beautiful blue, but he hardly had time to care. All he knew was that he might never see his home again.

He inhaled sharply, smelling the desert air, its dry heat, the smell of smoldering rock, along with fading plants.

Then, turning, he ran away towards his parents. His mother stood tall, her face showing no emotion, but her eyes were wet. Holding out her arms she pulled him into a hug, and then frowned and spoke in their native language, "I should not be babying you, Kii. Go. Learn. Do your best." She shoved him aside, and then turned away.

He turned to his father. His father's face was blank, and his eyes were dry. He held out a hand to Kii and said, "Obey what your mother said, boy." He too turned away, and Kii watched desperately as his mother and father walked away, leaving him with his uncle.

His uncle mounted the horse he had ridden, and motioned for Kii to climb up behind him. Kii did as he was told, but not without one last glance at the scenery around him.

Then turning away, he focused on what was in front of him, and he forced himself to comply. He would go, and he would learn. He would be better than the white children, and he would go somewhere, be better than the average white child.

The horse galloped away, taking him to an entirely new life.

* * *  
The mud brick building that was to be the school surprised him. All of Kii's life he had heard of the wealth of the white man, and the drab building surprised him.

He asked his uncle why the building was so dreary.

His uncle turned to him, his face grave. "White man does not help red man, and when he does, he does not give his all. Get used to it, Kii."

A man came out of the building, said something in English that Kii did not understand, and then he motioned for Kii's uncle to leave. His uncle did, with nary a glance behind him.

Kii was alone in the white man's world.

The white man said something to him in English, but Kii shook his head. He did not understand what was being said.

Nodding at him, as though he had found something out, the man led him inside, where other Navajo children stood, their heads held high, even though all of them were terrified.

The white man motioned for him to join the rest of the children, and then he motioned for another young man who stood by the wall.

The boy came up and began speaking Navajo to the children. He said, "Welcome to your new school. They will teach you. You must do what they say. Learn what they want you to learn. And, most importantly, you must never speak Navajo. Our language is not worth anything to the white man, and you must always remember that."

The children nodded gravely, and responded, "Yes." in Navajo.

The young man shook his head. It was obvious that he too was Navajo, but his hair was cut, and he was wearing the white men's clothes, rather than the deerskin clothing of the Navajo tribe. "Do not say it in our language." He paused, and then said, "Say 'yes'."

The children did. They had learned their first English word.

The children, both boys and girls, were forced to strip and were washed thoroughly by the teachers. Their clothes were taken away, and Kii never saw his Navajo clothes again.

After they were thoroughly washed, and clothed in white man clothes, they were led to a room, and forced to line up. Kii was first in line in front of the closed door, and he wondered what they were going to do to him.

The door opened, and he was pulled inside, and forced to sit in a chair. The room was light and airy, and the only thing that seemed unusual about it was that the man was holding scissors . . . to his hair!

"No! NO!" Kii yelled in Navajo. It was shameful, or a sign of grief, to cut one's hair in the Navajo culture. The man with the scissors ignored Kii's protests and cut his hair anyways.

He was then shoved out another door, where a man was waiting for him. The man had another Navajo next to him. The Navajo traitor asked for Kii's name, which he gave. The Navajo then turned to the man and said Kii's name, along with what it meant in English.

The man wrote something down on a piece of paper, and said, "Your name will be John Key."

They had stripped him of his clothing, cut his hair, but that was not enough. The white man also had to take his identity from him, and force him to be someone he was not.

Another young Navajo traitor came out and taught the children how to say "Hello" in English. They were then instructed never to speak Navajo.

Kii . . . John . . . shook his head. "No!" He said in Navajo. "No. I will speak my langauge."

One of the teachers shook his head. Grabbing John, he dragged him towards a board spread across two sawhorses where there was a bar of soap.

The soap was roughly shoved in his mouth and the man said, "No Navajo. No Navajo." Over and over again the words were repeated and John quickly learned what the man meant.

It was the only time the soap was shoved in his mouth, although for some people, that was not the case.

One boy remarked that he was beginning to love the taste of the bar of brown soap. They learned English well, however, seeing as they were not allowed to speak Navajo, not even to each other.

That didn't stop them, and John learned to treasure his language. He spoke it only when the teachers were absent to only a few friends, and he had a deep love for the Navajo language in his heart.

He excelled in his English, mathematics, and everything they were taught. He graduated from the eighth grade after only two years of study.

Because of his excellent grades, he was allowed to stay through high school and he graduated with high honors.

But the year he graduated was 1941. Relations with Japan, Germany, and Italy, the Axis powers, as they were known in Europe, were strained.

The United States was unsure of where she stood. Was she to join the war? Or should she remain neutral?

And there was another problem. All other codes the United States had made Japan had cracked. They had tried using other languages, but Japan had secretly sent agents over to learn the languages.

They would easily be able to crack any code used.

But there was unlearned language, that no white man fully knew. It would be a perfect language to use in code.

The Navajo language was the United States' best bet.

And John was to be pulled into the midst of it all; to become one of the U.S.'s most valued Navajo code talker.

 _Same Location, 1941_

John stared at the paper. His hand trembled as he moved the pen over the blank space; signing the form. The creamy whiteness of the smooth paper, the perfectness of the lines of his name seemed to contradict the decision he had just made.

He was going against his parents' wishes. They wished him to stay on the reservation and help them, as their other children had just been sent off to the same school where he too had been sent, so long ago.

But the lure of the Marines was too much. A man dressed in the crisp, blue uniform of the Navajo marines had come to John's high school and talked to the boys.

His words had never left John's mind.

"The Marines are the reason the United States is great." A sure over-exaggeration, but one John wanted to be part of.

The Marine who had talked to them had made several good points. "If you do not sign up, you may be drafted, and then you will only be a Private soldier who will probably be one of the first killed. You must enlist with us if you want to get the spot you want."

John couldn't help but remember how his heart had begun to beat faster, and how he had unconsciously leaned forward in his seat, the thrill pulling at him.

The paper was so official. But John couldn't get over the note he had written to his parents, the one telling them he had lied to them, and that he was leaving, but that he would send them his wages.

He could already picture his father's face when his younger sister read the English words that were so foreign to his thoroughly Navajo parents. His father would spit, and cough, "This is what the white man has done to my son. My family."

But the thrill, the lure, the excitement of it all was too great. He could hardly wait to be dressed in a neat blue uniform, the silver buttons gleaming.

He sighed, and then handed the paper to the man at the desk.

"John Key?" The man asked, reading over the papers.

John nodded. He had so much he wanted to ask the man, but the words were stuck in his throat.

The man surveyed the papers. "Your stuff looks about right. Go wait over there with the other Navajos. We've gotten a lot of them who have enlisted."

John nodded again, ashamed at how his tongue was dry, his throat parched, and, most importantly, the only words he could think of Navajo.

He dully walked towards the other end of the room where several other Navajos sat. They looked up when they saw him, and John recognized a few faces from his school. Most, however, were completely new faces.

"John Key." He said, holding out his hand. Then, in Navajo, he asked how long they had to wait.

One man shrugged, his dark eyes flashing fire. He spoke in Navajo, so no one would comprehend his words. "The white man does not appreciate us signing up. I have been sitting here for a week. They are going to install us in our groups last."

John nearly choked. If he was still sitting here in a week, his parents could easily come and find him. And, of course, it would be easy for them to tell the man at the desk his real age . . .

He nodded. "Oh." The group lapsed off into silence, staring at the wall, their faces and eyes showing no expression, something Native Americans had perfected in the presence of the white man.

The hours passed slowly, and John was beginning to become nervous. Perhaps it was not too late to sign out . . . it had been relatively easy to sign in.

Then a man wearing the coveted uniform walked into the room, his back impossibly straight. He read a bunch of names off a sheet of paper he held in one hand, and John watched in dismay as all of his Navajo friends stood up and walked away.

He leaned forward, wishing with all his heart that they would call him also. He sighed in relief as the man spoke his name, and he stood up casually, his moccasins treading lightly on the floor.

The man nodded to him, and, without a word, turned and walked away. The new Navajo marines followed.

The training was not at all hard. The Navajos excelled at it. While the other men fainted from the heat, the rough terrain, and exhaustion, the Navajos ran on, their muscular legs taking long strides, and covering long distances. With the seventy pound pack on their backs, the other Marines had been astonished at how quickly the Navajos walked, their faces set, their strides long.

They excelled at it, and were quickly recognized as the one to call on if help lifting something heavy was needed.

The United States was not yet at war, but relations with Japan were tense, and the government feared something would happen . . . soon.

And so the Marines trained. Their troops were strengthened, and they waited tensely for something to happen.

 _Frankfurt, Germany, 1941_

Amy had searched the house, but she found nothing else . . . at least not in the way of secret messages. She wondered if Lottie had been or Lucian . . . or if it was something that Ian had done.

She was pretty sure that Jesse had told her that Ian was a Lucian, which, of course, made him all the more deadly.

But she was sleeping with him more and more, and the past couple times they hadn't used any birth control. They were becoming entirely too comfortable . . . and she couldn't get Jesse's letter out of her mind, even though it had been months.

She had burnt it, crying, as she watched the creamy white envelope, with her real name on it, disintegrate into nothing but ashes.

Ian had come upon her crying, and had pulled her close to him, muttering, "Shh . . . Lottie. Shh . . ."

They tried to speak English as much as possible, and Ian was becoming quite good at it, probably since she had been born in America, although she did not tell him that. Excellent teachers produce excellent students and all that junk.

She had searched his room, but had found nothing. There was no clue to anything. She had actually dared to send a letter to America, to an address that Jesse had given her before, in case she had found anything.

She told him that she had found nothing, and that his letter had come at a perfect time, reminding her that she was really Amy Cahill.

Of course, he had not replied, and she had never found anything.

The tulips nagged her, but she couldn't understand why.

She sat on the couch staring at them, her eyes find each and every Lucian crest, her mind mulling over the message that was written.

She had bought Hitler's story, _Mein Kampf_ , and read all about "My Struggle", but she had found nothing that helped her with the tulip puzzle.

She didn't dare ask Ian about the wall, for she had no clue if Lottie herself had put it there. She didn't want Ian looking at her strangely, and saying, "You put that up yourself, remember?" Even if Ian had put it up, she didn't want to ask.

Sometimes you dived into trouble, and other times you avoided it.

She had already submerged herself in a pool of terrifying-ness coming to Germany on a hunch the Undercover had, and she was not ready to dig herself a hole that she would have to climb out of and then fill in.

Standing up, she walked over to the wall. She was going to find out what it meant, even if she had to stare at it for a week straight.

One of her fingers gently brushed over the crest in the dark red of the tulip. Then she gasped again. All the tulips spelling out the message were red. Blood was red.

She shook her head. She was being over-symbolic. Red tulips were beautiful. "I need a drink." She mumbled, stepping away from the wall.

Going into the kitchen, she turned on the radio, although she didn't know why. All the radio was was propaganda about how Germany was winning the war, although Amy knew better.

The London BBC was a much better broadcast, even if it was illegal. Even Ian listened to it, he had confessed to her, after he had caught her listening. . . He'd smiled, and in German, said, "I listen to that all the time, even if it is illegal."

In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of milk, and tried to stem the guilt that bubbled up in her as she looked at the cold, creamy liquid. Milk was scarce, and even more so as the farmers were the first to get drafted. No one else could coax milk out of those old cows quite as well.

But, as the mistress of a Nazi, she supposed she deserved it. She stared at the milk carton, with its German words, and sighed.

She was sick and tired of German. She'd rather be anywhere but here, in the worst of the war. Even Holland would be preferable to here.

Then she gasped. _Holland. Dutch. Tulips._

She set her half-empty glass back on the counter and rushed back to the wall, her dress swirling around her legs as she went, her thirst forgotten.

Of course. She should have seen it before. The red tulips formed a fancy script, and some of the yellow tulips formed an "H".

She ran her finger over it, using the slightest amount of force, and the wall groaned, shifting backwards. _She had found Ian's hiding spot._

Taking a deep breath, and hoping the maid wasn't around, she stepped into the darkness, hating the sound of the door clicking sharply behind her.

She stepped carefully down the stairs, her feet feeling their way down the cold stone steps. She should have carried a flash-light, as it certainly would have been helpful.

Amy couldn't get rid of the feeling that she was walking into a trap. The air was cold and clammy, and her breaths came in short, fast gulps.

Her heart had somehow managed to find a sledge hammer and was beating against her ribcage with the strength of a Tomas.

She reached the bottom of the steps and stood still, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. Running her hand over the wall, she felt for a switch, anything, something to light up this cavern of blackness.

There was nothing, and so she continued, with her hand against the wall, into the blackness.

Her eyes slowly adjusted, and she could make out dim shapes in the blackness, eerie shadows looming out at her. Her shin whacked into a small table and she winced. Pain shot up her leg, residing in her right shin and causing both of her knees to ache dully at the sharpness of the ache.

And then she heard voices, and saw a light coming from the stairs. Someone was coming.

She heard Ian's voice, and felt her heart begin to beat against her ribcage harder, yelling for a jailbreak.

She was trapped. There was no where to hide, at least where she could see, and as soon as the light arrived she would be found out. There was no explanation for why she was down here. She could not have "lost a stocking" and there was no other reason.

She would be found out, and tortured mercilessly by those who had no mercy.

 _Several Days Ago at a Lucian Branch Meeting, 1941_

The room buzzed with nervousness. Isabel Kabra was late. The meeting of the branch could not begin without her.

Adolf Hitler himself was here, and his temper was beginning to flare. "Wo ist sie?" He barked loudly, his words echoing in the room packed with Lucians.

"We don't know, sir." A respectful American Lucian said, despite the fact that he did not support Hitler. But he did not want to get kicked out of the branch for voicing his opinions, as so many others had.

In fact, that was what they were meeting about. It would be so simple for American Lucians to slip information to the U.S. government, and Hitler knew this.

The Americans were in an uproar when they heard the news, and they called for a meeting. It had been quite difficult to arrange for them to fly overseas during war, but as Lucians, they had their ways.

The door flung open. A disheveled young man flew in.

Adolf Hitler turned around. "Ian?"

Isabel Kabra had sent. . . _her son?_ "What are you doing here?"

"With all due respect, Fuhrer." Ian was doubled over, sucking in his breath. "I advise we move, right now."

Hitler's eyes narrowed. "Why?" He demanded.

The room began to buzz with nervousness. Questions flew back and forth, like crazy flies trying to decide which rotting carcass to land on.

"The Ekats have a bug in this room." Ian straightened. "Isabel is at our new location. Come. But not all at once!"

Hitler shook his head. "Nein. No."

A gasp flew up from the room; many covered their mouths in astonishment.

"S-s-sir?" Was Ian Kabra stuttering? Many more gasped, looking at one other, their eyes wide with fear.

"We will not go!" Hitler announced. "Let them hear our plans!" He barked. "We are Lucians, we will always overcome!"

A cheer rose up, although many looked as though they did not believe Hitler's proclamation. But what could they do? Hitler had as good as taken over the branch. The world was his next step; he was not far from achieving his goal.

* * *

 _Frankfurt, Germany, 1941_

She was panicking. _Think, Amy, Think!_ She commanded herself, feeling terror grip her more strongly, tightening its iron grasp with every passing second.

And then she remembered the table.

If she could just . . . she stuck her foot under farther, grimacing at the wood that rubbed up against her bruised shin.

There was room! She got down her knees and slid under, pulling her knees in after. She shut her eyes in relief. She heard the voices get closer and she clutched at her dress with shaking hands, hoping all of it was underneath the table and hoping that this wasn't Ian's desk.

"Please." She whispered, just to herself and to God. "Save me."

The lights flipped on and she heard Ian's voice. "Hitler is becoming more and difficult to work with."

"Of course, sir."

English? Why was he speaking English? Amy's eyes opened and she had to stifle a gasp. Ian stood right in front of the table she was curled under. He leaned over, rustling with papers.

"These are his battle plans." Ian said. "It took me a lot of time to get these, so please, please, please be careful."

Ian spoke English flawlessly. _Where had he practiced?_ He didn't practice _that_ much with her . . . unless he mumbled his breath all day, which was very unlikely.

"What's our first objective?" The man asked.

Amy was confused. This didn't sound as if he was helping Hitler. It sounded as if he had . . . _stolen battle plans?_

"Our first objective is to get Hitler to trust us. You will need to be his second hand man. If you can get him to trust you, that is."

 _What in the world?_ Amy wanted to scream. This was going to interesting. If she could just send this to Jesse . . .

"I thought that's what you would say. So once I get promoted several ranks than we'll talk more?"

Ian nodded. "Yes. Good luck, Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg."

The man laughed, mumbling something to the extent of "I'm not there yet . . ."

Amy's head reeled.

Ian spoke again. "One more thing. The Lucian branch is divided into two branches. Those that support Hitler and those that don't. Obviously, we don't, but I'm not going to show it in public. You're going to have to trust me on some things."

She heard footsteps walking up the stairs and heard Ian rustling with papers.

Her heart beat had increased a lot in the past few minutes and now she was just confused.

Hadn't Jesse sent her to Germany to spy and play mistress to a _Nazi?_ Ian may be part of the group, but his words had expressed the complete opposite of what Jesse had told her.

"No." Amy told herself. "There's an explanation." Then she shook her head. It all made sense. Ian had warned the man because he was going to be doublecross him. That way the man wouldn't suspect him of doing anything odd if he was especially close with some of the cruelest men in Germany.

The man was a fool, and Ian had just proven himself a worthy Lucian.

Ian switched off the lights and walked upstairs, causing Amy to jump. She heard the secret door slide closed and then she panicked again.

 _How in Hitler's name was she supposed to get out without Ian noticing her?_

* * *

 ** _I know. Another cliffie. And it only took me seven months to update._**

 ** _I saw the most recent guest review_**

 **Story: *not updated in seven months***

 **Me: WHYYYYYYY**

 _ **And so, out of the kindness of my heart, I updated.**_

 _ **Your welcome.**_

 _ **This chapter is mostly filler, but I promise John Key will play a vital part in this story.**_

 _ **I will try my best to update faster, but I feel like instead of getting better at writing, I'm getting worse. Like, I compared this chapter to the one I've written recently and I was like OMG WHAT HAPPENED? PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT NOT PRACTICE MAKES CRUDDY...**_

 _ **SO YEAH, that's my dilemma for now... and I'll see you soon!**_

 _ **Also... thank you to everyone who's been a faithful reviewer, and thanks to those guest reviewers.**_

 _ **Like, guys, really, when you leave a review like that (or a review at all, honestly) it makes me more motivated to update because I know you guys actually like what I'm doing.**_

 _ **Anyhoo... I'll just stop ranting and publish this for you all to read and (hopefully) enjoy.**_

 _ **Also... one more thing. The spell check isn't working on my account for whatever reason and I'm a terrible speller, plus I type really fast and I have a problem of spelling "the" "teh" all the time and some other errors when I type one letter instead of the other and yada yada.**_

 _ **You writers understand, don't you?**_

 _ **Ok, I really need to shut up I just haven't been able to until now, probably cuz I haven't updated in like forever.**_

 _ **Ok. Goodbye!**_

 _ ***wants to keep writing***_

 _ ***slaps my hand***_

 _ ***yanks hand off the keyboard***_

 _ ***sighs***_

 _ ***rolls eyes***_

 _ **Bye!**_

 _ **-ADDICTed to Writing**_


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